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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIML  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


:::^ 

^    :! 
'=-^ 


i5*j*E«.eoL 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hil 


http://www.archive.org/details/behindblueridgehOObayl 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THIS  VOLUME. 


ON    BOTH    SIDES. 

By  Miss  Frances  Courtenay  Baylor. 

CoQtainiog  " The  Perfect  Treasore ' '  and  "  On  This  Side,"  the  whole  forming  a  complete  storj. 

12mo.    Extra  clotli.    $1.25. 


"No  such  faithful,  candid,  kindly,  brilliant,  and  incisive  presentation 
of  English  and  Ameriam  types  has  before  been  achieved.  The  wit  of  the 
story  is  considerable.  It  is'^vritten  brilliantly,  yet  not  flimsily.  It  is  the 
best  international  novel  that  either  side  ha's  hitherto  produced.  It  is 
written  by  an  American  woman  who  reallv  knows  both  countries,  and 
who  JiiLS  s'hown  that  she  possesses  powers  which  ought  to  put  her  in  the 
front  rank  of  fiction."— Aeio  York  Trihune. 

'"On  Both  Sides'  proves  to  be  a  positive  surprise  to  the  literary  world. 
There  is  neither  an  Englishman  nor  an  American  writer  on  this  side  or 
that  who  might  not  be  proud  to  have  written  this  international  novel. 
It  will  be  one  of  the  most  popular  books  of  the  season,— one  that  will  be 
read,  criticised,  and  talked  about  iu  all  the  circles  of  intelligent  society." 
—yew  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  Both  nationalities,  in  fact,  are  so  delicately  and  humorously  satirized, 
that  it  is  a  truly  'international'  piece  of  fun.  The  good  points,  tiie  true 
distinction  of  good  breeding  in  manners  and  customs  pertaining  to  each 
of  the  two  peoples,  and  the  thorough  good  understanding  of  the  genuine 
people  in  tlie  story,  are  the  most  satisfactory  of  its  conclusions;  but  it  is 
a  sharp  stylus  tliatsets  down  tlie  pretensionsof  the  vulgar  on  either  side. 
It  looks  as  tliough  Dai^y  Miller  were  avenged  at  last,— and  yet  no  olTence 
either  given  or  rccnixea.'"— Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"In  Miss  Baylor's  work  we  have  a  novel  entertaining  from  beginning 
to  end,  with  briglitness  that  never  falls  flat,  that  always  suggest.s  some- 
thing beyond  the  mere  amusement,  that  will  be  most  enjoyed  by  those  of 
most  cultivation,  that  is  clever,  keen,  and  intellectual  enough  to  be 
recognized  as  genuine  wit,  and  yet  good-natured  and  amiable  enough  to 
be  accepted  as  the  most  delightful  humor.  It  is  not  fun,  but  intelligent 
wit;  it  IS  not  mere  comicality,  but  charming  humor;  it  is  nota  colleetion 
of  bright  savings  of  clever  people,  but  a  reproduction  of  ways  of  thought 
and  tvpes  of  manner  infinitely  entertaining  to  the  reader,  while  not  in 
the  least  funny  to  the  actor,  or  intended  by  him  to  appear  funny.  It  is 
iniinitablv  good  as  a  rendering  of  the  peculiarities  of  British  and  of 
American*  nature  and  training,  while  it  is  so  ])erfcctly  free  from  anything 
like  ridicule,  that  the  victims  would  be  the  first  to  smile."— T/ic  Critic. 


**  *  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid, 
on  receipt  of  the  price,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  Publishers, 

Nos.  715  iind  717  Market  St.,  Philadelphia. 


Behind  the  Blue  Ridge. 


A  HOMELY  NARRATIVE. 


BY 

FEANCES  COUETENAY  BAYLOE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "ON  BOTH  SIDES,"  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 

1887. 


Copyright,  1887,  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Compant. 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


I. 

**  Is  not  the  life  of  every  such  man  a  Tragedy  made  up  of  Fate  and  one's 
own  Deservings  ?" — Carlyle. 

Leading  through  a  rocky  pass  in  the  Blue  Eidge — a 
pass  dust-choked  in  summer,  snow-blocked  in  winter — is 
a  road  that  seems  just  the  ordinary  prosaic  highway  of 
the  country, — laid  out  by  an  engineer,  built  by  a  turnpike 
company,  used  as  a  connecting  link  between  the  beauti- 
ful Yalley  of  Yirginia  and  the  world  lying  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountains.  But  it  is  something  more.  It 
is  wide  enough  now  for  two  or  more  carriages  to  pass 
each  other  on  it  without  difficulty.  It  was  originally  a 
faint  trail,  growing  ever  more  distinct  with  use,  made  by 
the  buffalo  that  went  pushing  and  trampling  and  trot- 
ting along  it ;  by  the  deer  daintily  picking  their  way 
among  some  of  its  obstructions  and  leaping  gracefully 
over  others;  by  surly,  slow-moving  bear  taking  their 
own  time  for  the  journey.  Panthers  glided  swiftly  over 
it,  rabbits  darted  across  it,  wolves  lurked  beside  it,  flocks 
of  wild  turkeys  flopped  or  strutted  along  it  morning 
and  evening;  the  fox,  the  lynx  knew  it,  as  did  every 
bird  and  beast  in  the  whole  country-side.  And  a  crea- 
ture that  added  the  instinct  of  all  these  animals  to  an 
acute  human  intelligence  knew  it,  too,  for  the  Shawnees 

1*  5 

602710 


8  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

dumped  along  its  whole  length.  "  Good  heavens  !  what 
does  this  mean?"  it  thought.  "lam  ruined  forever! 
What  on  earth  do  I  want  with  all  that  abominable  stuif 
w^hen  people  are  always  complaining  of  the  few  stones 
that  I've  always  had  ?  What  are  they  going  to  do  with 
it?"  It  soon  found  out;  for  next  day  an  army  of  men 
in  masks  seated  themselves  on  these  heaps,  hammer  in 
hand,  and  having  pounded  them  into  bits,  spread  them 
evenly  across  its  surface,  and  then  having  rolled  an 
enormous  iron  cylinder  across  that,  went  their  way, 
boasting,  with  the  utmost  effrontery,  of  what  they  had 
done  for  "  the  old  road."  Crushed  to  the  earth,  the  road 
could  only  submit  and  rail  out  its  grief  to  the  whole 
valley.  "This  is  what  comes  of  having  anything  to  do 
with  man''  it  said.  "  Think  of  what  I  have  done  for 
him,  and  look  how  he  has  served  me, — worse  than  the 
very  beasts !  I  might  as  well  have  been  a  rocl%!  I  that 
used  to  be  as  green  as  a  May  meadow,  and  %hat  had 
white  violets  and  wild-roses  blooming  on  both  sides  of 
me,  and  anemones  and  strawberries  and  laurel  and  all 
kinds  of  lovely  flowers  and  fruits  growing  down  the 
middle !  And  now  look  at  me,  covered  from  end  to  end 
with  this  hard  stone  and  filthy  dust !  Now  I  am  indeed 
buried  alive !  I  that  complained  of  the  buifalo  have 
been  trampled  to  death, — yes,  had  all  the  life  pressed 
out  of  me  forever  by  that  hideous  mountain  on  wheels 
that  they  passed  over  me  again  and  again." 

The  road  was  now  a  turnpike,  but  dead  it  was  not ; — 
more  alive  than  ever,  on  the  contrary,  in  one  way,  for  all 
its  heart  was  broken,  and  it  was  only  the  stone  effigy  of 
its  old  self  The  ever-changing,  ever-moving  procession 
went  on  over  its  grave  at  least,  as  it  does  over  all  graves, 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  9 

— armies  of  blue-coats  now ;  other  armies  of  gray-coats ; 
parks  of  artillery  that  were  almost  as  bad  as  the  cylin- 
ders ;  regiments  of  horse  thundering  forward ;  regi- 
ments of  foot  falling  back  ;  couriers  galloping  madly 
hither  and  thither ;  trains  of  wagons  a  mile  long  creak- 
ing along  to  camp  or  capture,  with  a  limping  group  of 
stragglers  acting  as  volunteer  escort,  their  fortunate 
muskets  sticking  out  from  the  canvas  interior  where 
the  poor  fellows  longed  to  be  riding ;  ambulances  carrj'- 
ing  the  wounded  to  the  rear ;  general  officers,  with  the 
staff  curveting  and  caracoling  and  reconnoitring ;  guilty 
citizens  on  foot  flying  to  the  mountains;  guiltless  citi- 
zens hurried  off  in  handcuffs ;  peaceable  farmers  in 
carts  getting  twice  as  much  as  they  should  for  vegeta- 
bles ;  frightened  women  walking  away  from  burning 
houses,  leading  little  children  by  the  hand. 

The  road  got  tired  to  death  of  it  all  as  it  gleamed 
white  and  dusty  in  the  sunshine.  It  sighed  for  the  days 
when  it  was  an  obscure,  dewy,  leafy  trail,  and  thought 
the  war  would  never  be  over,  and  looked  up  at  the 
patient  stars  in  mute  despair.  But  it  did  come  to  an 
end  at  last,  which  deceived  the  road  into  thinking  that 
peace  had  come  for  it  as  well  as  for  the  country.  But 
in  this  it  was  mistaken.  The  procession,  somewhat 
changed  in  character,  went  on,  only  with  less  demon- 
stration ;  still  goes  on,  and  ever  will.  Now  it  is  a  pair 
of  lovers  in  a  smart  gig  spinning  briskly  along  to  the 
county  fair ;  the  doomed  invalid  drawn  slowly  along  in 
an  open  barouche  that  he  may  get  a  little  wan  pleasure 
from  country  sights  and  sounds,  with  his  solicitous  rela- 
tives all  about  him  and  Death  in  the  rumble  ;  the  farmer 
perched  high  on  his  wood-wagon  crawling  at  a  snail's 


10  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

pace  towards  the  nearest  market-town  as  he  lazily  cracks 
a  long  whip  over  horses  that  go  their  own  sober  way, 
or  returning  home,  perhaps,  singing  and  shouting, 
shaking  his  head,  lashing  his  horses,  his  rustic  wits  and 
hard-won  wage  both  gone;  the  schoolboy  whistling 
merrily  as  he  whirls  down-hill  on  his  new  bicycle;  the 
good  doctor's  buggy  bowling  rapidly  away  in  mortal 
haste  towards  this  or  that  neighboring  farm-house ;  the 
shackling,  heavy-bodied  stage-coach  which  rattles  over 
its  twenty  miles  or  more  in  a  ponderously-lively  fashion 
that  allows  the  summer  tourist  to  patronize  the  scenery, 
and  the  South  generally,  quite  at  his  leisure. 

Governor  Spottiswood's  tramontane  expedition  had 
not  long  gone  its  romantic  way  when  there  came  over 
the  mountain  trail  an  English  sailor-pioneer  named 
John  Shore.  He  was  a  large-framed,  light-hearted  Au- 
tolycus  of  a  wanderer,  who  had  left  his  own  country 
for  the  El  Dorado  that  was  waiting  to  be  inherited  by 
the  brave  and  adventurous  across  the  Atlantic.  Set- 
tling in  New  England,  he  tried  being  everything  by 
turns  and  nothing  long  for  some  years,  and  then  finding 
that  it  did  not  differ  materially  from  old  England  so 
far  as  any  improvement  in  his  fortunes  was  concerned, 
and  feeling  himself  decidedly  out  of  sympathy  with  its 
strictly  respectable  and  sternly  religious  atmosphere, 
he  "  weighed  anchor,"  as  he  phrased  it,  and  again  fol- 
lowed a  beckoning  Fortune  over  hill  and  dale  until 
she  led  him  into  the  wilderness.  The  valley  he  had 
entered  was  almost  an  unbroken  forest.  It  had  once 
been  a  great  lake  that  increased  in  volume  until  it 
burst  through  the  encompassing  mountains  at  the 
point  now  called  Harper's  Ferry,  and  ran  its  triumphant 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  l\ 

course  through  the  Potomac  into  the  oceau  beyond. 
The  whole  district  of  country  of  which  it  formed  a 
part  was  the  final  expression  of  King  James's  liberal 
sentiments  towards  the  London  Company,  and  extended 
"  westward  to  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  for  a  hundred 
miles  into  the  sea  beyond."  It  was  so  little  known 
that  it  was  not  until  1778  that  the  geographical  effort 
of  defining  the  whole  State  of  Illinois  as  "  a  county" 
was  made.  It  was  just  the  time  and  place  for  our 
pioneer ;  this  era  of  large  views  and  hazy  proprietor- 
ship was  the  golden  age  of  which  he  had  dreamed,  in 
which  everything  was  to  be  had  for  the  taking.  Ho 
had  left  nothing  behind  him  except  the  memory  of  an 
unhappy  home  and  a  succession  of  experiences  which 
he  chose  to  call  failures  and  misfortunes,  but  which  had 
more  than  once  brought  him  to  the  stocks  and  the 
whipping-post,  heavy  punishments  for  light  offences 
being  the  justice  of  the  period.  The  trouble  had  been 
that  everything  had  belonged  to  somebody  else.  He 
saw  it  clearly  now.  He  had  brought  with  him  only  a 
stout  heart,  a  good  gun,  and  a  sagacious  dog,  but  he 
was  in  a  country  in  which  land  was  held  in  fee  simple. 
He  had  only  to  choose  an  estate  to  suit  him  and  keep 
it  as  he  had  won  it.  He  felt  the  embarrassment  of 
riches,  and  could  not  decide  for  a  day  or  two  where  to 
"  locate"  with  all  the  forest  before  him  to  choose  from. 
It  hardly  seemed  worth  while  to  appropriate  anything 
where  all  was  his.  He  had  been  lono^  enouo;h  in  the 
New  World  to  learn  some  woodcraft,  and  he  had  a  fine 
natural  intelligence, — two  important  possessions  when 
the  site  of  a  future  home  is  to  be  chosen.  At  last, 
after  prowling  about  extensively,  looking  at  the  sit- 


12  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

uation,  soil,  advantages  offered  by  various  places  (as 
determined  by  certain  tests  of  his  own  not  known  to 
the  modern  surveyor,  such  as  examining  the  bark  on 
the  trees,  dipping  his  fingers  in  water  and  holding  them 
up  to  see  which  way  the  wind  blew,  and  the  like),  he 
fixed  upon  a  certain  spot  on  Little  South  Mountain 
that  particularly  pleased  him.  It  was  primarily  a 
splendid  grove  of  oaks.  It  commanded  an  extensive 
and  beautiful  view.  A  mountain-stream  ran  by  it  as 
pure  as  though  its  every  drop  had  been  filtered,  as 
cold  as  though  it  had  been  iced,  as  sparkling  as  though 
it  had  been  just  air-bewitched.  It  was  sheltered  from 
the  prevailing  north  and  northwest  winds,  as  he  had 
ascertained  by  the  primitive  but  effective  plans  already 
mentioned.  All  these  were  points  so  much  in  its  favor 
that  he  eagerly  proceeded  to  mark  it  for  his  own. 
This  he  did  literally.  He  ran  as  lightly  as  a  squirrel 
up  a  certain  fine  beech  in  the  grove.  When  about 
forty  feet  above  the  earth  he  took  a  hatchet  from  his 
belt  and  struck  several  lusty  blows  that  all  the  listening 
forest  heard.  They  rang  out  in  cheerful  defiance  on 
the  still  air,  and  were  given  back  in  surprised  melody. 
The  moist  chips  dropping  on  the  earth  sent  the  scared 
lizards  like  green  flashes  across  the  grass  into  their 
hiding-places.  It  was  the  knell  of  fauns,  and  dryads, 
and  elves,  if  any  such  were  about,  and  of  the  Indians 
who,  all  unconscious  of  their  doom,  were  revelling  in 
the  excitements  of  their  great  yearly  chase  not  far 
away.  Gone  were  chiefs,  squaws,  papooses,  wigwams, 
moccasins,  calumets,  tomahawks,  from  that  moment. 
The  new  kingdom  had  come. 

As  for  John  Shore,  he  dropped  to  the  green  sward 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  13 

below,  and  when  he  had  marked  several  other  trees  in 
the  vicinity  in  a  way  that  he  thought  he  could  not  fail 
to  recognize,  he  took  his  bearings  again  carefully,  looked 
about  him  with  an  air  of  satisfied  ownership,  and  de- 
parted as  he  came  from  the  valley,  the  season  being 
autumn  and  unfavorable  to  immediate  settlement. 

Early  in  the  following  spring  he  was  back  again, 
bringing  with  him  a  train  of  heavily-laden  pack-horses, 
and  accompanied  by  three  men  whose  minds  he  had 
Inflamed  by  his  description  of  the  land  he  had  spied 
out. 

These  hardy  adventurers,  like  their  brave  brother- 
pioneers  all  ovef  the  country,  now  set  to  work  courage- 
ously to  plant  the  acorn  of  this  our  American  civiliza- 
tion,— a  mighty  oak  now,  which  may  yet  be  five 
hundred  years  coming  to  perfection.  God  save  it  from 
decay ! 

The  wolves  were  soon  howling  at  night  around  rude 
log  cabins  set  great  distances  apart  in  the  valley.  The 
aborigines,  who,  according  to  the  learned  Mr.  Nicholas 
Fuller,  are  "the  posterity  of  our  great-grandfather 
Japheth,"  found  themselves  obliged  to  tolerate  a  branch 
of  their  family  giving  good  presum23tive  proof  of  being 
relatives  in  their  willingness,  even  stern  determination, 
to  share  the  family  inheritance.  John  Shore,  especially, 
was  soon  very  widely  known  among  them  as  "Long 
Knife,"  and  respected  as  a  brave  man  and  mighty 
hunter,  whom  it  would  be  a  positive  pleasure  to  scalp. 
Eut  he,  for  his  part,  kept  his  powder  dry,  and  showed 
himself  a  match  for  them  at  every  point.  For  three 
years  he  played  the  dangerous  game  of  a  life  for  a 
life  with  them,  and  hunted,  and  fished,  and  shot,  and 

2 


14  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

rode,  and  bade  fair  to  become  as  savage  as  any  Shawnee 
of  them  all.  And  then,  yielding  to  a  vagrant  impulse, 
he  went  off  into  Pennsylvania  for  awhile.  He  was 
not  gone  long,  and  when  he  returned  he  went  to  work 
in  earnest  to  build  a  house  on  the  site  selected.  Being 
an  Englishman,  he  had  his  own  fixed  ideas  on  most  sub- 
jects, including  house-building,  and,  being  an  obstinate 
man,  he  was  bent  on  carrying  them  out.  He  had  no  in- 
tention of  putting  up  a  frail  shanty  that  would  "  tumble 
about  his  ears  in  a  few  years,  and  might  blow  down 
any  day."  If  it  was  a  question  of  that  sort  of  tempo- 
rary shelter,  he  preferred  a  tarpaulin,  he  said.  So  he 
took  his  axe  and  hatchet  and  gun  and  Avent  off  day 
after  day  for  some  months  to  a  neighboring  grove, 
where  he  propped  his  gun  against  a  tree  and  worked 
with  a  will,  choosing  every  bit  of  his  wood  carefully, 
and  whistling  "  Bess  of  Bednall-Green"  as  he  wrought 
it  into  the  shape  and  size  required.  When  he  had  got 
all  the  necessary  material  and  had  seasoned  it,  he  put 
up,  with  a  little  aid,  a  well-built,  substantial  two-roomed 
cottage  of  a  pattern  familiar  to  him.  He  had  seen 
such  in  many  an  English  lane,  and  when  he  had  put  on 
its  steep  overhanging  roof  (which  took  some  time,  and 
kept  him  "  up  aloft"  much  longer  than  he  had  expected), 
and  had  got  a  tiny  porch  in  front  of  it,  and  a  shed  at 
the  back,  and  a  rail-fence  around  it,  he  was  a  proud 
and  happy  man.  Nor  was  this  all.  He  took  incredible 
pains  with  his  rafters  and  puncheon  floor,  and  skilfull}^ 
daubed  and  chinked  the  interior.  He  inserted  one  pre- 
cious pane  of  glass  in  the  stout,  cross-barred  wooden 
shutter.  He  put  up  some  shelves  in  a  way  that  would 
not  have  disgraced  a  skilled  workman.     And  then,  with 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  15 

the  "handiness"  of  the  sailor,  he  set  about  making 
some  rude  furniture,  consisting  chiefly  of  a  kitchen- 
dresser,  a  settee,  a  table,  and  some  hide-bottomed  chairs, 
and  succeeded  in  that,  too.  A  sociologist  would  have 
known  what  was  to  come  next.  Given  a  man  and  a 
house,  and  what  follows  ?  A  woman,  of  course.  John 
Shore  swept  up  his  shavings,  locked  his  door,  put  the 
key  in  his  pocket,  and  went  oif  straightway  in  search 
of  that  woman.  It  was  not  a  search,  either,  exactly, 
for  he  had  seen  in  his  previous  absence  a  remarkably 
pretty  Dutch  girl,  very  blue  as  to  the  eyes  and  flaxen 
as  to  the  tresses,  knitting  in  the  court-yard  of  a  certain 
wayside  inn  in  Pennsylvania;  and  though  he  had  only 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  her,  it  was  she  who  had 
inspired  his  recent  labors.  The  wooing  was  a  remark- 
ably brief  and  entirely  successful  one.  In  a  week  he 
brought  the  inspiration  back,  and  that  with  her  father's 
blessing,  and  mounted  on  top  of  her  mother's  feather- 
bed, tricked  out  in  all  her  simple  finery  and  still  knit- 
ting on  the  particular  pair  of  stockings  on  which  she 
had  been  engaged  when  her  impetuous  suitor  swept 
down  upon  her  and  bore  her  ofl^.  In  this  way  one  of 
the  first  families  of  Virginia,  in  actual  practical  preced- 
ence, if  not  in  the  aristocratic  sense,  was  founded. 

A  small  stream  of  new-comers  now  began  to  filter 
family  by  family  over  the  Kidge,  and  in  a  few  years  the 
settlement  of  the  country  had  become  an  accomplished 
fact.  When  the  boundary-line  between  the  States  of 
Yirginia  and  Pennsylvania  was  run  after  the  Eevolu- 
tion,  the  commissioners  so  far  respected  the  "  tomahawk 
rights,"  as  they  were  called,  of  the  early  settlers  as  to 
allow  four  hundred  acres  to  every  claim  of  the  kind. 


16  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

This  was  a  respectable  property  for  a  small  farmer  if  it 
had  been  at  all  valued  or  preserved  as  it  should  have 
been.  But  in  the  majority  of  cases  it  was  not.  If  it 
was  not  gambled  or  raced  or  thrown  avv^ay  like  the  large 
estates  of  from  ten  to  fifty  thousand  acres  owned  by  the 
gentrj^  from  the  low-country,  it  was,  in  its  degree,  as 
foolishly  managed,  or  rather  mismanaged, — fifty  good, 
broad  acres  being  exchanged  freely  for  a  cow  and  calf, 
a  horse  and  wagon,  or  any  other  possession  coveted  by 
the  petty  proprietors.  Gradually  the  early  settler  was 
pushed  off  by  the  growth  of  the  new  civilization  just 
as  the  Shawnee  had  been.  The  free  life  (whose  worst 
pains  are  preferred  by  some  men  to  the  best  pleasures 
that  the  most  sophisticated  sybarite  could  offer)  died 
out, — a  mode  of  existence  more  congenial  to  the  natural 
man  than  any  other,  having  for  its  gravest  duty  the 
cultivation,  in  odd  half-hours,  of  "  a  corn-patch"  and  the 
garden  on  which  the  women-folk  insisted,  and  for  its 
daily  compensation  getting  "  to  the  leeward"  of  your 
game  and  bringing  down  a  wild  turkey,  bear,  three- 
pronged  buck,  or  Indian  chief,  as  the  case  might  be. 

The  country  filled  up  with  a  different  class  of  people 
altogether:  canny  Scotch-Irish  colonists;  Germans  from 
the  Middle  States,  thick-headed,  horny  of  hand  ;  a  band 
of  Quakers,  involuntary  emigrants  these,  like  the  babies 
crowing  in  cradles  hollowed  out  of  large  logs, — sly 
Friends  suspected  of  trading  with  the  enemy,  and  sum- 
marily sent  to  the  rear  to  meditate  on  the  harshness  of 
"George  Washington,  that  man  of  war;"  a  troop  of 
Hessians  brought  down  by  that  doughty  old  warrior, 
General  Morgan,  who  made  them  turn  their  swords  into 
trowels  and  pickaxes  and  build  him  a  fine  house  before 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  17 

being  disbanded.  Dull  care  had  come,  and  toil,  and 
taxes,  and  trouble, — in  short,  civilization.  The  coun- 
try was  free,  but  the  people  were  no  longer  so,  and  the 
pioneer,  with  the  Shawnee  and  the  buffalo,  vanished  for- 
ever from  Yirginia. 

^u  ^^  ^  vl^  ^l^  ^  ^1^  ^1^  ^O  wt^ 

The  valley  could  not  go,  and  so  it  stayed  at  home 
and  got  more  and  more  beautiful  steadily  for  a  century, 
more  carefully  tilled,  fertile,  gracious  of  aspect,  until  it 
is  a  wonder  its  heart  was  not  lifted  up  as  well  as  its 
hills  as  it  sat  in  the  sunshine  a  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  girdled  by  its  mountains,  glorified  by  its  woods, 
illuminated  by  the  long-shining  curves  of  the  Shenan- 
doah, '•  daughter  of  the  stars." 

And  John  Shore's  house  remained.  He  had  builded 
better  than  he  knew.  It  looked  a  weather-beaten 
structure  enough  in  the  brilliant  October  sunshine ;  but 
it  had  held  its  own  bravely,  considering  that  it  was  not 
founded  upon  a  rock  and  had  long  been  exposed  to 
every  wind  of  heaven.  If  it  spread  itself  somewhat, 
somewhere  about  the  time  that  the  last  oak  of  the 
grove  that  had  screened  it  fell,  it  was  only  to  get  a 
better  hold  on  the  earth.  And  it  was  in  makino:  this 
effort  to  accommodate  itself  to  its  changed  circum- 
stances that  it  lost  its  compact  air  and  got  a  loose  and 
irregular  expression,  which  showed  that  it  had  entered 
upon  a  struggle  for  existence  that  made  it  careless  of 
appearances.  It  settled  down  in  the  rear  and  hugged 
the  hillside  in  a  way  that  made  the  front  porch  lean  in 
a  panic  against  the  wall.  The  front  door,  unprepared 
for  and  alarmed  by  such  a  demonstration,  tried  to  get 
out  of  the  way,  but  only  succeeded  in  straining  its 
b  2* 


18  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

hinfjcs  80  that  it  ever  afterwards  swuncr  in  at  a  most 
dissipated  angle  and  outward  with  great  difficulty. 
The  chimney  outside  went  crazy  on  the  spot,  and  fan- 
cied itself  a  pyramid,  and  did  its  best  to  assume  that 
shape,  running  up  in  a  wavy  line  irresolutely  for  a  cer- 
tain distance,  and  then  stopping  and  trying  to  throw 
stones  down  on  the  heads  of  people  passing  below.  The 
whole  structure  was  enveloped  in  a  mantle  of  Time's 
own  weaving, — a  sort  of  atmosphere  made  visible, — a 
surtout,  pinned  on  Avith  lichens  and  fungi  that  matched 
so  perfectly  that  they  were  never  noticed  by  careless 
observers;  marvels  of  workmanship  all  the  same,  olive- 
green,  or  gray,  for  the  most  part,  brown  occasionalh', 
and  very  semi-occasionally  crimson,  or  orange,  and 
fashioned  in  imitation  of  other  growths,  such  as  a  rose, 
or  a  miniature  forest  of  firs.  But  the  house  was  still  a 
good  house,  and,  in  its  modest  way,  a  comfortable  home, 
which  could  not  be  said  for  the  clusters  and  rows  of 
tumble-down  shanties  that  stretched  along  the  moun- 
tain-side, and  together  made  a  blur  on  the  fair  landscape. 
No  Highland  shielino;  or  Eussian  isba  or  Colorado 
"  claim  shack"  could  have  been  more  dismally  sugges- 
tive of  wretchedness  than  those  hovels  and  their  out- 
lying "  appertainments."  Nothing  could  equal  their 
forlornness  unless  it  was  their  inhabitants, — that  swarm 
of  free-born  but  fate-fettered  American  citizens  not  to 
be  insultingly  classified  as  "  peasants,"  but  as  poverty- 
stricken  and  miserable  as  the  humblest  vine-dresser  or 
goat-herd  that  ever  languished  under  a  monarchy, 
owned  allegiance  to  king  or  lord,  and  confessed  himself 
a  vassal  or  serf.  A  strip  of  land  belonged  to  each :  a 
few  acres  of  stony  ground  that  a  respectable  South- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  19 

down  would  have  sniffed  at  contemptuously,  running 
up  towards  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  where  a  thin 
fringe  of  woods  showed  against  the  sunset  red, — all 
that  the  axe  and  the  torch  had  spared  of  the  primeval 
forest.  If  a  Shawnee  ghost  ever  left  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds  to  revisit  his  old  home  and  haunts,  it  must 
have  found  great  difficulty  in  identifying  what  it  had 
left  with  what  it  found  ;  and  as  for  John  Shore,  he  never 
could  have  recognized  the  high-arched,  leafy,  dewy 
covert  in  which  he  had  set  his  home  in  that  barren 
slope,  wind-swept,  sun-parched,  rock-ribbed.  But  an- 
other spirit  from  the  land  of  shades  might  have  found 
cause  for  admiration  and  gratulation  in  one  feature  of 
the  neighborhood, — that  governor  of  Yirginia  who,  in 
1651,  issued  a  proclamation  commanding  that  public 
thanksgiving  should  be  made  for  "  the  increase  of  chil- 
dren that  God  Almightie  hath  vouchsafed  to  this  Colony." 
There  were  children,  children,  children  everywhere, — 
little  and  big,  ugly  and  pretty,  sickly  and  hardy,  merry 
and  melancholy,  mischievous  and  sober,  daring  and 
timid  children, — children  of  all  ages,  both  sexes,  and  of 
every  conceivable  variety  of  disposition  and  looks,  oozing 
ubiquitously  out  of  every  pore  of  the  place,  and  seeming 
as  much  the  prodigal  expression  of  a  carelessly-bounti- 
ful nature  as  the  ox-eyed  daisies  and  blue  thistles  of  the 
meadow-fields  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Never  did 
a  blessing  so  run  riot.  And,  like  curses,  they  invariably 
came  home  to  roost  under  a  roof  that  sheltered  so  many 
other  blessings  that  it  was  wonderful  how  they  ever 
found  refuge  there,  although,  like  the  wild-flowers  again, 
they  did  not  wait  to  be  set  in  the  carefully-prepared  beds 
of  a  nursery,  but  dropped  off  for  the  most  part  wher- 


20  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

ever  they  chanced  to  be  when  it  wa8  time  for  lids  and 
petals  to  close,  falling  softly  down  on  the  hard  floor, 
where  they  made  small  heaps  of  tattered,  tanned,  bare- 
footed innocents,  and  sank  into  the  sleep  full  "of  sweet 
dreams  and  health  and  quiet  breathing"  denied  often 
to  Dives  on  his  bed  of  down. 

"  Happy  is  the  man  that  hath  his  quiver  full,"  it  is 
written,  but  plus  fourteen  arrows  and  minus  as  many 
shekels,  and  skepticism  sifts  in  sometimes  under  the 
door-sills  and  down  the  chimneys.  Yet  it  is  not  in  such 
households  that  Ilerodian  views  of  children  are  held  as 
a  rule,  and  number  fifteen  is  often  more  cherished  and 
better  loved  in  them  than  any  of  its  predecessors. 

The  Shores  had  not  died  out  of  the  land,  but  a  super- 
abundance of  olive-branches  could  not  have  been  said 
to  have  caused  the  decay  in  the  familj^  fortunes  which 
had  reduced  them  to  the  level  of  their  neighbors.  In 
no  generation  had  there  been  more  than  four  children 
in  the  house  that  Sailor  Jack  had  built,  and  the  John 
Shore  of  1846  was  the  only  son  of  an  only  son.  In 
some  respects  he  might  have  been  pronounced  his  own 
ancestor,  representing  as  he  did  that  differentiation  of 
the  Shore  species  which  had  produced  a  new  variety. 
As  a  freak  of  nature  or  a  scientific  result,  he  might 
have  taken  a  prize  at  some  botanical  show  had  he  been 
vegetable  in  origin,  so  widely  did  he  differ  from  and  so 
closely  resemble  the  parent-stock.  But  unfortunately 
the  doctrine  of  '•  heredit}'"  was  not  known  on  the  moun- 
tain. The  most  agreeable  novelty  would  have  been 
suspected  long  and  challenged  over  and  over  again  be- 
fore being  accepted  in  that  conservative  community, 
and  with   this  one  the  initial  shock  of  surprise  was 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  21 

never  succeeded   by  the   flush   of  gratification.     The 
mountain  first  and  last  held  John  Shore  strictly  respon- 
sible for  all  he  was  and  said  and  did,  which  was  more 
than  the  angels  ever  thought  of  doing,  and  the  result 
was  that — well,  there  were  a  good  many  results,  as  will 
appear  later.      As  a  child,  he  was  not  understood  or 
altogether  approved  of     And  then  he  had  grown  into 
a  gawky  lad  who  led  the  horses   home  from  pasture 
with  branches  of  wild  honeysuckle  fastened  in  their 
bridles, — a  lad  that  made  himself  a  "  cornstalk"  violin 
(on  which  he  was  forever  picking  out  such  melodies  as 
he  heard  around  him  or  as  suggested  themselves  to 
him),  and  liked  to  repeat  such  of  his  mother's  hymns 
as  had  any  imaginative  flights  in  them.     "  Flowers  and 
fiddhn'  and  sich  ways  never  come  to  no  good  yet,"  said 
the  elders,  and  shook  their  unutterably  wise  heads,  and 
began  to  predict  the  end  from  the  beginning.     They 
continued  to  shake  them  when  he  came  to  manhood, 
and  developed  a  passion  for  shooting  and  fishing,  and 
spent  weeks  at  a  time  ofl"  by  himself  in  the  woods,  in 
harvest  season  as  like  as  not,  and  played  more  than 
ever  on  the  cheap  wooden  afl'air,  with  a  head  like  a 
rocking-horse,  for  which  he  had  paid  five  dollars,  and 
believed  to  be  the  finest  instrument  in  the  world.     They 
never  had  any  vagrant  impulses,  and  he  was  as  full  of 
them  as  a  swallow ;  they  had  no  love  for  music,  and  he 
could  repeat  every  strain  he  heard  as  easily  as  a  mock- 
ing-bird ;  they  saw  the  sun  get  up  and  go  down,  but 
never  saw  it  rise  or  set  in  fifty  years,  while  he  had  been 
gifted  with  the  seeing  eye  as  well  as  the  hearing  ear. 
They  never  any  more  thought  of  gathering  a  bouquet 
than  of  wrapping  themselves  up  in  a  cloud;  he  knew 


22  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  JUDGE. 

the  fiice  of  every  flower  for  leagues  around  (and  of 
every  tree  and  shrub  and  bush  for  that  matter),  and 
was  in  the  habit  of  going  about  with  a  collection  of 
berries  and  seeds  and  bulbs  in  his  pockets  with  which 
be  experimented  at  home.  He  had  been  seen  to  pin  a 
wild  rose  in  the  front  of  his  "  butternut"  coat.  But 
matters  did  not  come  to  a  crisis  until  somebody  told  the 
elders  that  John  Shore  could  repeat  all  the  psalms  of 
David.  That  struck  them  as  scandalous.  "  There's 
preachers  as  has  been  preachers  for  forty  year  that  can't 
do  as  much,  and  him  not  a  perfessin'  Christian,"  said 
one  of  them,  Jake  White,  in  discussing  the  indecent 
achievement.  "  Preachin'  is  preachin',  and  perfessin'  is 
perfessin',  and  ploughin'  is  ploughin',  and  fiddlin'  is 
fiddlin'.  And,  moreover,  my  advice  to  that  there  young 
man  is  to  drop  that  ere  how  of  his'n  and  take  up  that 
there  hoe  of  his'n.  And  why  ?  Causen  he'll  never 
come  to  a  pea's  pod  ef  he  don't." 

Jake  considered  himself,  and,  indeed,  was  regarded, 
as  the  great  authority  in  all  religious  matters  on  the 
mountain,  perhaps  because  of  his  wide  experience  in 
them.  Beginning  his  spiritual  career  as  a  "  Lutherian," 
he  successively  accepted  the  tenets  of  a  half-dozen  sects, 
80  nice  was  he  in  the  matter  of  theological  tenet,  and 
had  been  by  turns  a  Methodist,  an  "Ironside  Baptist," 
a  "  thin-skin  Baptist,"  a  Dunkard,  and  what  he  called  a 
"  close-communion  Christian." 

lie  had  been  baptized  once  and  "  sprinkled"  once  and 
"  im merged"  twice.  He  had  been  converted  and  per- 
verted, and  had  reverted  over  and  over  again.  He  had 
what  he  called  "the  searchin's," — meaning  attacks  of 
spiritual  uneasiness  and  doubt  to  which  he  was  liable 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  23 

at  any  time  when  the  last  creed  he  had  "  perfessed" 
began  to  get  too  tight  for  him,  and  the  sap  of  his  soul 
was  rising  and  burgeoning  preparatory  to  blossoming 
in  a  new  form.  So  far  from  being  ashamed  of  these 
constant  changes  in  his  views,  he  was  proud  of  being, 
as  he  phrased  it,  "  a  Seeker,"  and  he  declared  repeatedly 
that  what  he  was  looking  for  was  Vital  Heligion,  and 
that  he  never  would  be  satisfied  until  he  got  it.  He 
was  perfectly  stolid  under  the  comments  and  criticism, 
kindly  or  contemptuous,  that  assailed  him.  He  accepted 
it  openly  as  part  of  "  what  he  had  to  go  through  with," 
and  what  that  was  he  said  nobody  would  ever  know. 
This  position  was  impregnable,  and  he  thought  and 
talked  so  much  about  his  soul  that  finally  everything 
was  conceded  to  that  remarkably  fine,  large,  sensitive 
principle  that  even  he  could  have  claimed  for  it,  and 
he  came  to  be  regarded  as  a  most  uncompromising  and 
devoted  disciple  of  the  highest  form  of  truth,  and  got 
no  small  credit  for  his  inability  to  be  content  with  the 
lower  ones.  When  the  preliminary  pains  of  the  mys- 
terious and  mournful  malady  to  which  he  was  subject 
set  in,  as  was  shown  by  his  retirement  from  the  world, 
and,  above  all,  by  the  silence  that  was  wont  to  envelop 
him  while  he  brooded  over  the  unutterable  (a  silence  all 
the  more  impressive  because  of  his  habitual  loquacity), 
much  sympathy  was  felt  for  "  Brother  White,"  who, 
for  his  part,  regretted  the  sorrowful  necessity  he  was 
under  to  question  the  previously  accepted  order  of 
things  more  than  anybody,  and,  try  as  he  would,  could 
give  no  one  the  least  idea  of  what  he  w^as  suffering  in 
his  "  inside,"  by  which  term  he  meant  to  indicate  the 
seat  of  his  metaphysical   conflicts.     And   when,   after 


24  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

some  weeks,  "the  searchin's"  found  triumphant,  if  tem- 
porary, expression  and  profession  of  some  sort,  all  the 
mountain  crowded  to  "  meetin'  "  to  hear  the  result  of 
the  late  engagement  between  the  forces  of  Vital  Eeligion 
and  this  or  that  "  Church."  For  "  Jake,"  it  was  agreed, 
was  "  a  powerful  hand  at  givin'  experience."  He  had 
had  so  much  of  it  that  he  could  afford,  perhaps,  to  bo 
more  liberal  with  it  than  most  people,  and  while  some 
less  experienced  Christian  would  get  up  and  shut  his 
eyes  and  clear  his  throat,  and  hem,  and  haw,  and  blush, 
and  gasp,  and  hold  convulsively  to  the  last  sentence 
uttered  w^hile  he  felt  around  in  his  mind  for  another, 
Jake  would  rise  slowly  and  half  closing  his  ej'es  let  his 
body  sway  gently  backwards  and  forwards  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  pour  out  a  perfect  stream  of  thoughts, 
and  feelings,  and  sentiments,  and  presentiments,  and 
"warnings,"  and  "awakenings,"  and  "gropings,"  and 
"groanings"  that  made  him  the  wonder  and  admiration 
of  the  whole  congregation.  A  long  course  of  sermons 
from  "  preachers"  of  every  denomination  had  given  him 
all  the  resources  that  cant  or  rant,  or  real,  if  rough, 
eloquence  could  supply,  and  the  phrases  he  had  picked 
up  sounded  curiously  enough  sandwiched  in  his  every- 
day speech  j  but  when  it  came  to  an  "  experience"  they 
stood  him  in  good  stead, — so  much  so  that  his  friends 
often  urged  him  to  "go  on  the  circuit,"  to  which  ho 
would  reply  by  giving  his  head  a  mournful  shake,  and 
saying,  "  No,  no.  I  am  «  Seeker^ — a  Seeker,''  as  if  feeling 
his  liability  to  be  smitten  by  the  sword  of  speculation 
at  any  moment. 

Now  John  Shore,  in  a  community  in  which  children  of 
six  were  repeatedly  "  convicted,"  convinced  that  is,  that 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  25 

they  were,  as  the  phrase  went,  "the  vilest  of  the  vile," 
and,  overwhelmed  by  the  blackness  of  their  guilt,  re- 
tired behind  the  wood-pile  to  bewail  privately  for  hours 
their  unutterable  wickedness,  or  asked  their  relatives 
to  pray  for  their  "  poor,  lost  souls,"  because  they  might 
die  that  night  and  go  straight  to  a  place  which  is  no- 
toriously full  of  children — John  Shore,  I  say,  living  in 
this  atmosphere,  never  thought  about  his  soul  at  all, 
but  enjoyed  in  the  body  every  moment  of  his  exist- 
ence at  this  period  in  a  way  that  could  not  but  have 
been  aggravating  to  a  man  of  Brother  White's  spiritual 
sensibility.  And  at  last  he  did  a  thing  that  made 
that  gifted  Christian  most  uncharitably  and  finally 
sure  that  he  "  never  would  come  to  no  good  forever 
and  ever,  Amen."  He  married  the  prettiest  girl  on 
the  mountain, — a  sweet-faced  young  creature,  with 
unusually  long  eyelashes  shading  a  fine  pair  of  large, 
serious  gray  eyes, — an  embodiment  of  fair  and  tran- 
quil womanhood,  low-voiced  as  a  wood-pigeon  and  as 
gentle  as  a  nun.  Brother  White  was  thinking  of 
doing  the  same  thing,  it  is  true,  en  troisieme  noces, 
and  ought  not  to  have  regarded  it  as  an  unpardon- 
able offence,  considering  the  temptation  ;  but  circum- 
stances certainly  alter  cases.  Perhaps  he  thought 
that  a  person  of  her  grave  temperament  would  find  a 
soul  more  attractive  than  any  mere  body  could  be, 
and  would  not  be  affected  by  the  meretricious  charms 
of  a  hopelessly  frivolous,  if  handsome,  youth.  His 
disappointment  made  him  eloquent  in  prediction  in 
talking  over  the  affair  with  a  group  of  his  neighbors. 
"He  ain't  the  man  for  her,"  said  he.  "And  where- 
fore ?    He  ain't  suited  to  her.    And  therefore.     Se'll  be 

B  3 


26  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

a-comin',  and  a-goin',  and  a-fiddlin',  and  a-dancin',  and 
a-whiskey-drinkin',  and  a-kj'ard-playin',  and  a  holler- 
baloonin'.  And  whereas.  She'll  be  a-settin'  at  home, 
and  a-workin',  and  a-weepin',  and  a-prayin',  and 
a-wishin'  she  hadn't  never  to  her  life's  end  had  nothin' 
to  say  to  him  and  had  of  married — a  wiser,  and  a 
better,  and  a  richer  man.  And  moreover.  As  I  said 
before,  and  as  I  pinted  out,  and  as  I've  declared  to 
you  from  the  beginning,  and  as  I've  told  you  over  and 
over  again,  he  ain't  never  been,  he  ain't  never  goin'  to 
be,  he  ain't  got  no  idea  of  seemirC  to  be  goin'  to  be,  a 
perfessor  of  religion,  nor  a  church  member,  nor  a 
backslidin'  mourner,  nor  a  miserable  sinner! — not  him. 
For  firstl}^,  't'aint  in  him  to  be  a-thinkin',  and  a-feelin*, 
and  a  wraslin'  child  of  grace.  And  secondly,  he's  so 
Pharaoh-stifF  he  wouldn't  let  hisself  be  larnt  by  them 
as  is  put  here  to  lead,  and  to  teach,  and  to  show  forth, 
and  to  be  set  on  a  bushel.  And  thirdly,  he  wouldn't 
be  took  in,  or  accepted,  or  regarded,  ef  he  wuz  to 
come  forrard  on  probation  in  any  Church  Tve  had 
nothing  to  do  with,  and  I've  been  led,  and  pushed, 
and  driv  to  cornsider,  and  reggard,  and  study  over, 
and  to  look  at  but  not  be  led  by  most  of  'em,  ornless 
he  changed  hisself, — changed  his  heart,  and  his  mind, 
and  his  manners,  and  his  sperrit,  and  body,  and  flesh, 
and  soul.  And  whereas.  She  don't  know  it  now^ 
bein'  a  poor,  blind,  evil,  miserable,  mortal  woman, 
a-reachin'  out  after,  and  a-graspin'  hold  of,  and  a-seizin' 
of,  and  a-holdin'  onter,  and  a-clutchin'  at  what  she 
thinks  is  worth  havin',  which  it's  never  been,  and  ain't 
now,  and  never  will  be,  world  without  end, — she's  to  be 
pitied.     For  remember.     She'll  he  a  miserable  looman, — 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  27 

a  miserable  woman,  and  a  sad  woman,  and  a  wretched 
woman,  and  an  unhappy  woman,  and  an  afflicted  woman. 
And  then  whose  fault  will  it  be  ?  It  will  not  be  your 
fault,  nor  my  fault,  nor  anybody's  fault  but  her  fault. 
And  she'll  have  herself  to  thank  for  all  she's  been 
through,  and  come  through,  and  has  got  to  go  through 
to  the  very  end  of  her  days  in  the  land  which  is  given 
her,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  White !  And  lastly.  She 
aint  the  woman  for  him.  He  wants  a  worldly  wife,  and 
a  laughin'  and  prancin'  wife,  and  a  singin'  and  dancin' 
wife,  and  a  careerin'  and  cavortin'  wife !  And  she  ain't 
that  sort.  And  so  they  are  just  certain-surely  and  eter- 
nally and  everlastingly  bound  to  be  miserable,  ef  they 
don't  bust  up,  and  go  their  mournful  ways,  unto  their 
life's  ends !" 

There  were  other  suitors  who  agreed  with  Mr.  White 
in  his  conclusions,  although  they  were  not  able  to  ex- 
press their  chagrin  with  the  logical  and  rhetorical 
graces  that  were  always  at  the  command  of  that  elo- 
quent speaker, — heavy-broganned,  red-faced,  rough- 
handed  young  men,  who  had  no  way  of  showing  regret 
or  sentimental  despair  except  the  commonplace  one  of 
ceasing  to  visit  the  obdurate  charmer  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, clad  in  slop-shop  suits  (that  effectually  disguised 
such  charms  of  manly  bearing  and  fine  proportion  as 
they  possessed),  lit  up  by  flaming  cravats  that  Cupid, 
the  rogue !  had  tied  about  their  honest  sunburnt  necks, 
assuring  them  that  they  were  "  most  becoming,"  while 
he  held  himself  ready  to  tighten  the  slip-knot  if  neces- 
sary and  convert  the  choking  satin  of  sentiment  into 
the  more  galling  noose  matrimonial. 

And  there  were  other  lions  in  the  path  of  true  love 


28  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

with  a  better  right  to  roar  than  any  of  these  sucking 
doves ;  but,  in  spite  of  them  all,  one  morning  when  the 
sun  was  shining  its  brightest,  and  the  birds  were  sing- 
ing their  sweetest,  and  the  clouds  of  bees  swarmed 
thickest  in  other  clouds  of  pink  and  white  bloom  in  the 
orchards,  and  butterflies  floated  gayly  and  lit  trem- 
blingly here  and  there,  and  nature,  having  unpacked  all 
the  treasures  of  beauty  and  perfume  that  she  had  cruelly 
carried  away  seven  months  before,  sat  down  to  enjoy 
the  fair  prospect  and  revel  in  the  novelties  of  the  season 
like  the  veriest  woman, — on  this  lovel}^  spring  morning 
John  Shore  opened  his  gate  and  led  into  the  old  house 
a  bride  as  fair  as  the  flaxen-haired  girl,  its  first  mistress, 
and  as  sweet  as  the  great  whiff  that  greeted  them  from 
the  rain-freshened  lilacs  along  the  path,  and  that  was  a 
breath  of  heaven  f  And  now  it  seemed  for  a  time  that 
destiny  was  checkmated  and  the  elders  but  foolish 
prophets,  for  there  was  not  on  the  mountain  a  man 
more  temperate,  industrious,  and  "  steady"  than  John 
Shore,  or  a  husband  half  as  devoted.  The  people  who 
were  determined  to  find  fault  with  him  were  driven  to 
condemn  him  for  being  "  a  poor,  foolish  creature  that 
worshipped  the  ground  his  wife  walked  on,"  for  want 
of  worse  to  say,  while  patient,  weary  women  of  many 
labors  and  little  thanks  sighed  out  a  wish  that  thci/  had 
somebody  "  to  cut  every  stick  of  wood  and  bring  every 
drop  of  water"  for  them,  and  Mr.  AVhite  fell  back  upon 
a  formula  that  had  often  been  useful :  *•  Wait  until  the 
time  of  the  fidfiUin'  of  purposes  has  come,  and  you'll  see 
what  you'll  see."  John  even  became  the  thing  that  it 
had  been  said  it  was  impossible  for  him  ever  to  be, — 
"a  perfessor,"  joining  his  wife's  church,  known  as  "  the 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  29 

United  Bruthring,"  in  which  a  flaming  "  revival"  broke 
out  about  six  months  after  their  marriage, — perhaps 
because  he  found  it  so  j)leasant  to  be  united  with  her  in 
anything  and  everything.  Whatever  his  nlotives  were, 
his  mode  of  doing  this  was  severly  criticised  by  Mr. 
White,  who  took  the  same  step  at  the  same  time  after 
an  unusually  prolonged  and  acute  season  of  self-com- 
munion and  metaphysical  investigation,  in  which  he 
had  been  washed  hither  and  thither  by  the  wild  waves 
of  controversy,  until,  as  he  said  himself,  he  was  "  plum 
beat  aout." 

"  Why,  he  warn't  up  at  the  mouraers'  bench  but  one 
day !"  he  said,  in  indignant  comment.  "  He  got  it  that 
easy  !  And  I  was  weeks  and  weeks  a-turnin'  it  over  in 
m}^  mind,  and  a-lookin'  at  it  this  way,  and  a-lookin'  at 
it  that  way,  and  a-lookin'  at  it  the  other  way;  not 
knowin'  half  the  time  what  I  was  thinkin' ;  a-seein' 
of  the  truth  now  and  agin,  and  a-lettin'  it  slip,  and 
a-pickin'  it  up  agin  red-hot,  sufferin'  all  things  until 
grace  brought  me  to  yea,  verily.  Amen !  And  agin  I 
was  a  month  throwed  down  at  the  footstool,  night  and 
day  a-cryin',  and  a-prayin',  and  a-beseechin',  until  the 
very  children  at  the  back  of  the  church  was  almost  in 
fits!  That's  what /had  to  go  through.  It  all  depends 
on  what  you've  got  to  go  through.  When  the  time  for 
the  fulfillin'  of  purj^oses  comes,  it  comes,  and  you've  got 
to  wait  for  that  time.  Searchin'  is  searchin',  and  I 
know  what  that  is ;  and  seekin'  is  seekin',  and  it's  what 
we  are  all  bound,  and  obligated,  and  obleeged,  and  com- 
pelled— which  it  constraineth — to  do,  but  findbi'  is 
another  matter.  No,  no,  I  ain't  one  to  get  no  sort  of 
religion   cheap.      Ifs  got  to  cost  like  all  creation,  and  I 

3* 


30  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

ain't  a-goin'  to  stop,  nor  to  pause,  nor  to  halt,  nor  to 
consider  nothini^  until  I've  ffot  it,  if  it  is  to  be  had  in 
this  here  world,  or  in  the  heavens  above,  or  in  the 
waters  under  the  earth."  Vital  Eeligion  had  shown 
that  it  possessed  the  vital  principles  of  growth  and  ex- 
pansion again,  and  "  Brother  White"  had  been  talked 
of  as  far  up  as  Timber  Ridge  as  having  "  give  in  a  power- 
ful experience,  and  got  so  happy  and  so  full  of  glory 
that  he  was  carried  home  for  dead."  All  the  other  con- 
verts suffered  by  comparison  with  him,  but  none  more 
so  than  his  own  brother,  Timothy,  a  solemn,  silent  man, 
who  had  always  been  a  United  Brother  at  least  to  the 
extent  of  attending  service  regularly,  paying  his  dues, 
and  fulfilling  faithfully  his  duties  as  steward  of  the 
church,  but  who  had  never  been  known  to  do  two 
things, — sing  a  hymn  or  give  his  "  experience."  His  con- 
duct in  these  two  matters  gave  him  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  for  he  was  always  being  reproved  for  his  obsti- 
nacy or  urged  to  do  his  duty.  He  would  have  been 
expelled  if  he  had  not  been  "  a  good  contributin'  mem- 
ber." Such  are  valuable  in  all  communions,  and  so  at 
every  service  Timothy  took  his  seat  and  sat  out  the 
exercises  like  a  lay-figure  of  some  sort, — incredibly 
stolid,  attentive,  undemonstrative, — while  his  brethren 
marvelled  at  his  conduct,  imagined  a  hundred  theories 
by  which  to  explain  it,  and  never  hit  upon  the  truth. 
It  was  very  simple,  and  lay  on  the  surface.  Timothy 
had  no  experience  to  give,  and  he  had  no  voice.  One 
of  the  little-great  Frederick's  giant  grenadiers  had  two 
hearts,  we  are  told,  and  it  may  be  that  the  elder  of  the 
White  brothers  owed  his  abnormal  activity  in  theologi- 
cal matters  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  endowed  with 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  31 

two  souls,  his  own  and  his  brother's.  It  is  certain  that 
Timothy  was  never  "  awakened,"  or  "  convicted,"  or  even 
"alarmed,"  in  forty  years  of  constant  church-going. 
Yet  no  one,  not  the  most  earnest,  the  most  emotional 
member  of  the  congregation,  ever  enjoyed  a  revival  as 
he  did.  It  was  what  the  opera,  and  theatre,  and  balls, 
and  wine,  and  cards  are  to  other  men  in  other  situations, 
only  it  was  the  one  dissipation  of  his  dull  life.  It 
warmed  and  stimulated  his  phlegmatic  nature  as  nothing 
else  did, — pierced  and  roused  his  sluggish  mind,  thrilled 
along  his  well-muffled  nerves,  set  his  slow  blood  running 
briskly  on  its  errands, — producing  an  excitement  that 
was  delightful  to  him,  and  giving  him  the  most  vivid 
sensations  of  sympathy,  interest,  curiosity,  of  which  he 
was  capable.  Yet  with  twenty  people  shrieking,  and 
shouting,  and  groaning,  and  praying  before  him  in  vari- 
ous stages  of  religious  frenzy  he  gave  no  outward  evi- 
dence of  his  inward  emotion  such  as  those  about  him 
gave.  He  did  not  cry  out,  or  weep,  or  moan,  or  faint. 
When  he  began  to  be  deeply  interested  he  would  lean 
forward  in  his  chair  a  little,  cross  his  legs,  put  down  his 
right  elbow  and  support  his  face  in  his  hand,  the  better 
to  see  and  hear.  Then,  as  the  demonstrations  became 
more  agitating,  his  pale,  deep-set  eyes  would  glow  like 
aqua-marines;  he  would  moisten  his  lips.  When  the 
whole  congregation  burst  into  sobs  he  would  run  his 
right  hand  rapidly  through  his  hair  until  it  stood  up 
around  his  face  in  a  tragic  nimbus  in  curious  contrast 
with  his  features,  which  were  those  of  one  of  nature's 
caricatures, — insignificant  in  size  and  exaggerated  in 
outline.  And  when  his  emotions  threatened  to  get  the 
upper  hand  of  him  he  would  dive  suddenly  into  his  pocket 


32  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

and  bring  out  an  enormous  bandanna  handkerchief, 
which  he  ahvaj'S  carried,  and  firmly  bind  his  legs  together 
with  it  just  above  the  knee  where  they  wete  crossed. 
This  vigorous  measure  always  had  the  desired  effect  of 
keeping  not  only  his  body  in  subjection,  but  of  subdu- 
ing him  into  his  original  state  of  stolid  calm,  and  of 
preventing  all  flow  of  feeling  and  all  dangerous  conse- 
quences. But  his  brethren  were  not  in  the  secret  of 
this  bit  of  moral  surgery,  and  they  waxed  more  and 
more  indignant  as  revival  followed  revival  and  their 
steward  still  sat  a  mute  and  presumably  mutinous  sin- 
ner, so  that  when  his  brother  in  "  uniting"  himself  with 
them  made  such  a  scene  as  the  oldest  members  "  had 
never  seen  the  like  of,"  the  contrast  was  naturally 
glaring.  It  was  noticed,  too,  that  Timothy  alone  had 
no  praise  for  the  "  powerful  experience"  which  has  been 
mentioned,  and  this  was  set  down  to  malice  and  all  un- 
charitableness.  But  the  fact  was  that  he  had  become  a 
connoisseur  in  religious  emotion,  and  knew  a  naked  soul 
well  enough,  and  preferred  it  to  one  clad  in  the  oratori- 
cal purple  of  his  brother's  weaving. 

Unfortunately,  John  Shore's  connection  with  the 
church  was  of  the  briefest.  There  are  Pharisees  in 
every  fold,  and  that  ancient  element  of  all  the  churches 
was  represented  in  this  one  by  certain  well-to-do  farmers' 
wives  who  generally  sat  together,  and  somewhat  apart 
from  all  the  others,  in  the  chief  seats.  In  the  course 
of  the  next  "protracted  meeting"  a  very  poor,  and 
particularly  frowsy,  unkempt,  but  reputable  young  girl 
imprudently  took  a  seat  on  the  end  of  one  of  these 
benches,  tacitly  reserved  for  the  elect  ladies ;  and  that 
from  sheer  embarrassment  and  not  from  any  desire  to 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  33 

intrude  upon  her  neighbors.  Up  rose  the  leading  lady 
of  the  party,  and,  seizing  a  blue  parasol,  and  a  magenta 
fan,  and  a  gilt-edged  hymn-book,  she  swept  ostenta- 
tiously across  the  aisle  and  took  up  a  fresh  position 
where  paupers  could  not  come  between  the  wind  and 
her  nobility,  bridling  haughtily  as  she  did  so,  and 
saying,  "  I  can't  get  religion  with  no  such  people." 
John  Shore  heard  her,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a 
blow  in  the  face  ;  but  the  forlorn  girl  accepted  the  insult 
meekly,  and  when  "  the  mourners"  were  invited  to  go 
up  she  rushed  forward  and  fell  weeping  on  her  knees 
beside  her  fellow-sinners  in  a  tumult  of  feeling  that 
made  her  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  religion  was  in- 
tended exclusively  for  the  rich  and  respectable.  To 
John  Shore's  amazement  she  was  not  allowed  to  stay 
there.  Her  tattered  robe  was  not  the  robe  of  pharisaic 
righteousness  at  all,  and,  unobserved  by  the  preacher, 
certain  of  the  elders  went  up  to  her,  said  something  to 
her,  and  then  half  led,  half  hustled  her  to  the  back  of 
the  church,  where  she  was  allowed  to  drop  into  a  seat 
near  the  door.  On  seeing  this,  John  Shore,  who  was 
singing  a  hymn,  suddenly  closed  first  his  lips  and  then 
his  book,  and,  turning,  marched  fiercely  down  the  main 
aisle  and  out  of  the  church,  followed  by  his  wife's 
startled  gaze  and  the  eyes  of  the  whole  congrega- 
tion. "Ef  thaVs  religion,  I've  got  no  use  for  it!"  he 
said,  hotly,  when  explaining  his  defection  to  his  wife 
afterwards.  "She  had  as  good  a  right  to  be  there  as 
anybody.  I'll  not  set  foot  in  meetin'  agin,  and  it's  no 
use  askin'  me." 

And  so  snapped  one  of  the  cables  that  might  have 
held  this  soul  in  the  storm  that  was  to  beat  upon  his 


34  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

house  and  make  liis  heart  desolate;  nor  is  it  only  sim- 
ple and  ignorant  folk  who  make  the  mistake  of  con- 
founding Christianity^  with  Christians — so-called.  This 
subject  was  the  only  one  that  was  never  discussed  in 
the  Shore  household, — the  nearest  approach  to  discord 
in  a  home  full  of  such  harmonies  as  wise  thrift,  true 
and  tender  love,  gentle  thoughts,  unselfish  deeds,  to  say 
nothing  of  others  that  were  heard  evening  after  even- 
ing floating  out  through  the  open  windows  near  which 
Alice  sat  and  sewed  with  one  foot  on  a  cradle  while 
John  played  "  Money  Musk,"  and  "  Watermillion,"  and 
"  Zip  Coon,"  and  "  Miss  McLeod,"  and  "  Yellow  Stock- 
ings,"  and  many  a  tune  besides,  with  a  bow  that  circled 
and  flourished  about  him  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  motion 
that  threatened  to  cut  the  very  ears  oif  his  head.  No 
skies  seemed  bluer  than  those  that  arched  clearly  above 
the  old  cottage.  But  suddenly  they  were  overcast  and 
soon  were  filled  with  the  very  blackness  of  darkness. 
The  storm  had  come.  And  now  the  other  cable — 
which,  being  made  of  heart-strings,  was  so  strong  that 
it  might  have  stood  any  strain  that  could  have  been 
put  upon  it — gave  way,  too,  and  John  Shore  was  ship- 
wrecked, with  nothing  saved  from  the  goodly  vessel 
of  all  his  hopes  but  a  little  child  and  the  memory  of 
a  fireside  saint. 

Three  days  passed,  and  then,  pale  and  haggard,  he 
got  up  from  the  bed  on  which  he  had  been  lying  silent 
and  still  all  day,  stung  into  action  by  a  sound  full  of 
painful  suggestion, — the  rattle  of  a  milk-pail  which  one 
of  the  women  in  the  house  picked  up,  the  rustle  of  her 
skirts  as  she  left  the  room,  her  retreating  footsteps.  It 
was  to  go  on,  then,  the  milking,  and  baking, — and  sweep- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  35 

ing,  and  sewing;  work  was  to  go  on  just  as  it  used  to, 
when  she  with  whom  he  associated  all  domestic  duties 
as  well  as  affections  would  never  do  any  of  these  things 
again.  His  heart  swelled  to  bursting  with  the  thought, 
so  intolerable  to  all  bereaved  ones.  He  staggered  a 
little  as  he  stood  on  his  feet  and  looked  about  him  with 
the  dazed  vision  of  heavy  grief  "  I— I  am  going  away. 
Aunt  Martha,"  he  said  to  the  old  woman  who  had  taken 
charge  of  him  and  his  in  the  past  week,  and  was  sitting 
before  a  little  smouldering  fire  of  chips  nursing  the 
baby.  "  Take  care  of  that  child.  I  give  him  to  you. 
And  you  can  live  here  and  take  all  that  there  is."  He 
started  towards  the  door  as  he  spoke,  caught  sight  of 
his  wife's  shawl  and  bonnet  on  the  peg  where  she  had 
hung  them,  stopped,  took  down  the  shawl  and  walked 
with  it  into  an  inner  room,  followed  by  Aunt  Martha's 
anxious  eyes  and  her  thoughts  of  pity  for  his  trouble 
and  wonder  at  its  effects.  She  could  not  imagine  what 
he  was  going  to  do  with  the  shawl.  What  he  did  was 
to  wrap  it  tenderly  about  his  violin,  put  both  under  his 
arm,  and  hurry  past  her  out  of  the  house  and  down  the 
walk.  "  John  !  John !"  she  screamed  after  him,  "  where 
are  you  going?"  "I  don't  know,"  came  back  to  her 
as  he  passed  through  the  gate. 

"  When  are  you  comin'  back,  John  ?"  she  persisted, 
her  voice  quivering  shrilly  with  age  and  anxiety. 

"  I  ain't  comin'  back,"  he  said. 

•  She  had  taken  "  John's  talk"  as  merely  the  wild  utter- 
ance of  affliction ;  but,  seeing  this,  she  hastily  put  the 
child  down  and  hobbled  after  him  as  fast  as  she  could. 
She  could  not  overtake  him,  however,  and,  after  waiting 
outside  a  bit,  she  comfortably  concluded  that  he  would 


36  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  be  back  to  supper"  and  went  in-doors  again.  Mean- 
while, he  was  making  his  way  rapidly  down  the  Eed 
Lane. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  mountains,  and  the  pale 
clear  light  it  had  lefl  was  rapidly  failing.  Some  little 
birds  were  settlincr  down  in  their  nests  in  the  hedire- 
rows  for  the  night  with  faint,  intermittent  twitterings 
of  farewell.  A  light  or  two  gleamed  from  the  windows 
of  a  cottage  here  and  there.  The  cows  were  walking 
slowly  up  the  lane  with  pendulous  heads  and  ears  broad- 
flapped,  chewing  the  cud  of  contentment,  swishing  with 
idle  stroke  the  flies  from  their  flanks,  lowin<r  occasion- 
ally  to  let  impatient  calves  know  that  they  were  coming. 

He  looked  at  them  as  they  passed  him.  They  were 
going  home,  and  he 

A  bat  dashed  past  him  out  into  the  darkness,  going 
in  the  same  direction.  "  Ay  1  that  is  what  I  am  doing," 
he  thought. 

Coming  to  the  mouth  of  the  lane  where  it  debouched 
into  the  high-road,  he  gave  one  long  look  back.  And 
then  he  hurried  forward.  The  shadows  closed  about 
him,  the  road  stretched  before  him  in  all  its  lonely 
length.     It  seemed  to  lead  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

********** 

If  there  was  a  thing  that  the  mountain  hated,  it  was 
what  it  called  and  esteemed  "  foolishness."  That  a  man 
should  give  up  "  goin'  to  mcetin' "  because  a  poor  girl 
that  he  did  not  so  much  as  know  was  treated  in  a  way 
that  he  did  not  approve  of  was  "  foolishness."  That  a 
man  should  give  up  his  home  and  friends,  and  leave  a 
piece  of  property  to  be  managed  by  anybody  or  benefit 
anybody  but   himself,  merely  because  ho  had  lost  his 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  37 

wife,  was  double-distilled  "foolishness."  There  were 
men  on  the  mountain  who  had  lost  four  wives  and  had 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as  letting  the  light  afflic- 
tion of  the  moment  work  permanent  injury  to  such  grave 
interests  as  pigs,  and  potatoes,  and  wheat, — to  property, 
in  short, — and  who  might  have  lost  four  hundred  (with 
patriarchal  opportunities  and  advantages  in  the  matter 
of  length  of  days  and  number  of  spouses)  without  being 
driven  out  of  the  county.  And  if  there  was  a  thing 
that  the  Mountain  despised  it  was  travellers.  It  knew 
that  all  tramps  were  travellers,  ergo  all  travellers  were 
tramps.  It  was  true  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
authorized  vagabonds,  who  came  among  them  with 
chromos,  and  lamps,  and  cheap  flim-flams  to  sell,  in 
which  case  their  contempt  was  good-humored  and  tol- 
erant, and  very  occasionally  they  were  puzzled  by 
another  variety  of  the  genus,  the  "  winged  Ishmaelites" 
of  commerce,  who  drove  smart  gigs,  and  were  dressed 
always  as  for  "  meetin',"  or  "  courtin',''  and  stopped  only 
at  the  large  farm-houses,  and  joked  a  great  deal,  and 
never  had  anything  less  than  a  sewing-machine  to  ''  dis- 
pose of"  But  still  travelling  was  travelling.  On  that 
point  the  Mountain  was  immovable,  fixed,  firm.  There 
were  cases  in  which  travel,  as  represented  by  "  buggy 
trips"  to  regions  as  remote  as  the  country  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Eidge,  two  counties  off,  had  been  condoned 
as  a  necessary  evil,  but  this  had  only  been  when  im- 
portant issues  were  at  stake  and  hung  upon  the  prodig- 
ious effort  such  as  getting  a  thoroughbred  Jersey  cow, 
or  selling  a  horse,  or  buying  seed-corn.  As  a  rule,  nobody 
went  twenty  miles  from  home,  or  ever  wished  to  go  that 
far,  or  had  the  least  desire,  the  faintest  curiosity,  to  know 

4 


38  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

what  lay  beyond  the  blue  heights  that  stretched  along 
their  horizon,  look  where  they  would,  and  made  for  them 
a  compact,  complete,  and  perfectly  satisfactory  world 
with  distinctly  final,  definite  limits,  such  as  geography 
can  never  give. 

So  John  Shore  was  set  down  as  a  crack-brained  fellow, 
— no  great  loss  to  anybody, — and  the  Mountain  had 
always  known  how  it  would  be.  His  return  at  an  early 
date  was  confidently  predicted  and  exj^ected.  Good  old 
Aunt  Martha  fancied  that  she  heard  his  step  many  a 
time,  and  for  a  year  would  occasionally  set  away  on 
the  top  shelf  of  the  dresser  some  dish  or  other — a  pot 
of  apple-butter,  a  slice  of  souse,  or  a  plate  of  her  corn- 
muffins — as  an  en  cas,  should  John  come  back  to  hi:^ 
own  "  clean  famished." 

Si  Hodges,  who  was  the  wit  of  the  community, 
"reckoned  he'd  wait  till  harvest  was  over."  Sister 
Parrish,  who  lived  next  to  the  cottage,  felt  it  her  duty 
to  warn  Baby  Shore,  still  in  short  clothes,  against 
"growin'  up  to  be  like  his  'Pa-ap,'"  who  had  "gone  way 
oif  yonder-  beyant  the  Eidge,  goodness  alive  knows 
whurabouts,  and  who  warn't  no  'count  when  he  was  at 
home."  (In  spite  of  certain  obstacles  of  sex  that  one 
would  have  supposed  insuperable.  Sister  Parrish  was  a 
United  Brother,  and  as  such  had  a  grudge  against  poor 
"  Pa-ap.") 

Brother  White  was  convinced  that  "it  warn't  no  use 
a-flyin',  nor  a-fleein',  from  the  wrath  of  Heaven,"  which 
he  charit.ibly  assumed  to  have  fallen  upon  his  rival. 
"  For  there's  the  wind,  and  the  whirlwind,  and  the 
tornadio  to  overtake,"  said  he.  "  And  there's  the  thunder 
a-rollin'  and  a-clappin'  to  warn.     And  there's  the  rain 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  39 

a-downfallfn,'  and  the  rivers  a-uprisin'  to  drown.  And 
there's  the  lightnin'  a-dartin'  forrards  and  a-rekiling 
backards  to  strike.  And  there's  the  hail  a-slantin'  and 
a-slitherin'  to  smite.  And  there's  earthquakes  and  there's 
seaquakes  to  swaller  up.  And  there's  wild  beasts  a-ragin' 
and  a-roarin'  and  a-gnashin'  of  teeth  to  devour.  And 
there's  all  manner  of  pesteriferous  creatures  a-creepin' 
over,  and  a-crawlin'  under.  And  there's  pits  and  pitfalls, 
and  traps  and  trapfalls,  and  no  man  maketh  a  way  to 
escape  in  that  day.  And  wherefore?  Whatever  is  to 
be,  will  be,  whether  it  cometh  to  pass  or  doth  not  attain 
to  it,  and  when  the  time  for  the  fulfilment  of  purposes 
comes  it  will  not  stay  its  hand  for  John  Shore,  nor  ten 
thousand  thousand  sich,  and  don't  you  think  it." 

On  hearing  this,  the  Mountain,  already  conscious  of 
its  vast  superiority  to  every  other  place,  prided  itself 
afresh  on  its  security,  serenity,  and  general  stability, 
and,  accepting  Mr.  White's  remarks  as  a  masterly  sum- 
mary of  what  lay  "  beyant  the  Eidge,"  congratulated 
itself  anew  on  its  enviable  character  and  conditions, 
and  was  less  inclined  than  ever  to  change  them  for  the 
doubtful  good  and  certain  evils  of  "  furrin  parts." 


40  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


11. 


"  Bedimmed  the  noon-tide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
and  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault  is  set  roaring  war." 
— Tempest. 

Many  a  harvest  of  wheat  and  corn  was  planted  and 
grew  into  bearded  and  tasselled  luxuriance  and  golden 
perfection  and  was  stored  and  eaten  without  any  help 
from  John  Shore.  The  mountain  sat  high  and  serene 
in  idyllic  picturesqueness  of  pose  and  repose  above  the 
world ;  it  looked  down  upon  all  these  years,  and  seen 
from  a  distance  by  the  sentimental  observer,  seemed  a 
point  in  a  delectable  and  delightsome  land  of  agricul- 
tural plenty  and  rural  virtue,  its  every  harsh  feature  of 
rock}^  slope,  and  brier-set  paths,  poor  soil,  and  scant 
woodland,  together  with  the  volcanic  fires  pent  up 
perhaps,  in  its  breast,  veiled  by  mist.  And  the  commu- 
nity collectively  known  as  "  the  Mountain"  presented  a 
wondrously  tranquil  exterior,  that  passed  for  perfect 
contentment  and  honest  toil, — ingenuous  preference 
for  "simplicity"  (as  expressed  by  hard  labor  and  scant 
rewards)  and  great  uprightness  in  dealing — with  those 
of  defective  sympathy  or  narrow  experience  of  life, 
while  in  reality  there  was  below  the  surface  the  toil 
and  suffering,  the  want  and  ignorance,  the  tragedies 
and  griefs,  of  all  the  sons  of  Adam,  and  as  much  tend- 
ency to  drink,  and  lie,  and  cheat,  and  steal,  and  break 
every  commandment  in  the  Decalogue  as  if  there  had 
not  been  a  field,  or  brook,  or  flower  for  miles  around  to 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  41 

ask  how  such  things  could  be  in  God's  sweet  world. 
Daisies  are  charming  symbols  of  innocence  to  the  urban 
mind,  but  it  is  perfectly  possible  to  gaze  fixedly  at 
them  from  daylight  until  dark  in  the  revery  born  of 
opium.  And  young  lambs  frisking  in  green  meadows 
is  a  pretty  sight  enough  to  see,  and  would  be  a  prettier 
if  this  were  not  a  brutal  butchering  world,  which  shows 
them  to  us  against  a  greener  background  of  mint ;  but 
it  was  while  Cain  and  Abel  were  "in  the  field  with  the 
flocks"  that  the  first  murder  was  done.  So  long  as  it  is 
the  heart  of  man  that  is  "  deceitful,  and  desperately 
wicked,"  the  most  pastoral  scenery  and  sylvan  shades 
will  afford  no  sort  of  security  that  human  conduct  will 
bear  any  nice  relation  to  bucolic  environment,  though 
we  should  all  go  on  all-fours  like  Nebuchadnezzar  and 
eat  grass.  Good  Friday,  1861,  found  the  Mountain  posi- 
tively agitated,  if  such  a  term  can  be  applied  to  such 
an  inert  mass  of  disciplined  dulness  and  conservative 
custom.  A  great  many  startling  things  had  disturbed 
the  fine  equilibrium  of  its  monotony.  For  a  year 
vague  murmurs  from  the  stormy  sea  of  political  differ- 
ence and  strife  beyond  the  mountains  had  reached  even 
this  remote  spot,  though  small  heed  was  paid  to  them. 
But  now  Virginia  was  about  to  secede.  War  had  come ; 
and  that  fact,  like  a  blazing  ship,  filled  the  eye  and  mind 
of  all  who  were  watching  its  course,  and  could  be  seen 
from  a  great  distance,  so  that  the  most  sluggish  souls 
were  quickened  for  the  time  into  something  like  vivid 
feeling.  The  Mountain,  ever  practical,  would  have 
liked  to  utilize  the  heat  generated  to  cook  its  own 
breakfast,  and  had  quite  a  keen  anxiety  to  know  how 
far  the  increased  price  of  pork  and  wheat  would  justify 

4* 


42  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Becession,  and  the  overturning  of  a  system  that  gave 
bi-weekly  market-days,  and  regular,  if  small,  profits  on 
farm  produce  of  every  kind.  It  wished  to  know,  too, 
how  far  it  was  liable  for  the  promises  being  made  in  its 
name  by  ardent  orators  at  the  cross-roads,  in  the  matter 
of  conscription,  crops,  taxes.  In  short,  it  took  the  natural 
and  frankly-selfish  view  of  the  situation  at  first  and  not 
the  heroic  one,  and  was  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  it 
would  have  to  carry  its  share  of  the  general  burden. 
And  then,  too,  it  was  concerned  about  some  other  things.. 
"  Bud"  Hodges,  Si's  brother,  had  been  hanged  only  the 
day  before  for  having  killed  his  wife,  after  being  "  con- 
victed" almost  on  the  scaffold,  and  making  a  long  speech 
to  the  assembled  crowd,  in  which  he  invited  them  all  to 
meet  him  in  Heaven,  especially  his  friends  and  relatives, 
apparently  with  the  fullest  assurance  that  he  would  be 
there  to  welcome  them.  "  A  man  that  can  toss  more 
hay  and  cut  more  ice,  and  plough  straighter  and  longer 
than  any  man  'bout  here,  and  she  not  fitten  to  live  no- 
way, and  the  children  out-scattered  'mong  strangers 
they  never  heerd  tell  of  nor  laid  eyes  on  before."  com- 
plained the  party  most  discontented  with  the  workings 
of  a  law  which  took  no  account  of  temptation,  provoca- 
tion, nor  consequences,  led,  strange  to  say,  by  the  victim's 
brother. 

The  preacher  who  had  been  with  him  all  through  his 
trial,  like  the  good  shepherd  that  he  was, — a  man  much 
loved  by  his  flock, — had  been  ordered  away  after  a  stay 
of  eight  years  among  them,  which  was  unsettling. 

The  crops  had  failed  the  summer  before,  and  this,  like 
all  calamities,  had  fallen  heaviest  upon  those  least  able 
to  bear  it, — the  laborers  and  owners  of  small  holdings 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  43 

rather  than  the  large  farmers  about  them, — in  the 
severe  winter  that  had  followed. 

"  Jones's  brindle  steer"  had  somehow  run  a  spike 
through  his  chest,  and  had  to  be  shot,  valuable  as  he 
was.  Two  sets  of  double-headed  chickens  had  already 
been  hatched,  early  as  the  season  was.  Altogether  it 
was  felt  to  be  a  most  unusual  and  troublous  time,  in 
which  almost  anything  might  happen  that  was  abnor- 
mal or  painful,  such  unrest  and  anxiety  was  in  the  air. 
But,  all  the  same,  nobody  was  in  the  least  prepared  for 
what  was  coming  as  fast  as — but  stop !  it  is  some  miles 
off  yet.  The  day  was  a  busy  one.  Good  Friday  always 
is  on  the  Mountain ;  not  that  any  part  of  it  is  spent  in 
religious  observances.  Scarcely  any  one  knew  what  its 
special  significance  was  to  the  Christian  world.  But 
ignorance  is  always  relative,  and  they  had  information 
of  their  own  about  it  that  they  likewise  supposed  to  be 
as  universal  as  it  was  important.  It  was  well  known 
among  them,  for  instance,  that  if  flower-seeds  were 
planted  on  that  day  they  would  come  up  "all  colored," — 
variegated ;  that  if  eggs  were  set  under  a  hen  with  no 
reputation  whatever  for  doing  her  duty  b}^  them,  in 
double  the  usual  numbers,  every  one  of  them  w^ould 
turn  out  a  chicken  that  would  live  through  anything, 
though  it  were  to  thunder  during  every  day  of  the 
incubation;  that  potatoes  put  in  then  yielded  as  well 
again  as  those  planted  at  any  other  season ;  and  that 
if  you  wanted  to  begin  any  piece  of  work,  from  cutting 
out  a  dress,  if  you  were  a  woman,  to  building  a  house, 
if  you  were  a  man.  Good  Friday  was  the  luckiest  day 
in  all  the  year  to  choose  for  it. 

This  being  the  case,  it  was  not  remarkable  that  in  a 


44  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

region  where  it  was  hardly  possible  for  the  sheep  to 
cross  a  meadow  without  being  followed  by  the  slow 
gaze  of  four  or  five  rustics,  and  in  which  anything  like 
an  event  or  a  piece  of  news  lasted  for  months  (with  no 
care  at  all  in  economizing  expenditure  in  details),  that 
a  man  mounted  on  a  large,  roan  horse  rode  the  whole 
length  of  the  Red  Lane  without  being  observed  by  a 
single  adult.  The  children  about  the  houses  and  in  the 
door-ways,  barelegged  and  tattered,  half  bold,  half  shy, 
peeped  at  or  goggled  after  him.  Eliza  Watson,  bending 
over  her  lettuce-bed,  raised  her  head  for  a  moment  as 
he  passed.  Jane  Woodruff  came  to  the  door  with  her 
iron  in  her  hand  and  spat  on  it  before  glancing  that 
way.  The  yellow  dog  flew  out  from  behind  the  ash- 
hopper  and  barked  vague  suspicion  at  the  third  house. 
A  dirty  white  kitten  was  all  that  was  to  be  seen  at 
the  next  place,  feebly  mewing  and  prowling;  at  the 
next,  only  an  absurdly  pompous  turkey-cock,  swelling 
conceit  and  defiance  with  tragic  stage-villainous  starts 
and  side-swept  wings,  while  his  spouses  picked  their  way 
about  in  a  meek,  womanly,  or,  rather,  fine-ladical  fashion, 
as  if  they  were  not  used  to  the  country  and  found  the 
walking  bad.  John  Shore — for  it  was  he — turned  in  his 
saddle  and  gazed  earnestly  at  all  these  familiar  sights. 
The  children  might  have  been,  and  seemed  for  the 
moment,  just  those  he  had  left  there ;  the  fowls  and 
animals  were  of  the  same  breed  ;  the  houses  were  only 
a  shade  more  dilapidated.  Was  it  really  fifteen  years 
since  he  had  rushed  away  from  here  with  an  intolerable 
sense  of  loss  and  desolation  that  had  darkened  the 
very  heavens  above  him  and  the  earth  about  him? 
Ever  since  he  had  left  the  high-road  and  slackened  rein 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  45 

he  had  been  looking  for  startling  changes  that  should 
in  some  measure  correspond  with  those  he  had  known ; 
but  none  were  visible.  He  saw  one  or  two  comfortable 
stone  houses  on  the  hills  around  him  that  had  not  been 
there,  a  new  barn,  a  few  patent  gates.  He  noticed  that 
the  land  had  been  divided  into  smaller  fields  and  seemed 
better  tilled  ;  but  this  was  all.  And  there  w-as  the  Eidge 
as  blue  as  ever;  Massanutton  mist-veiled,  sharp-spurred, 
distant  and  beautiful  as  his  lost  happiness  to  his  home- 
sick eyes.  There  was  the  Eound  Meadow  greening 
with  wheat  as  it  always  was  at  that  season;  there 
were  the  same  sheep,  apparently,  dotting  the  same  old 
pastures ;  there  were  the  rich  upland  slopes,  set  in  green 
frames  of  wood  or  field,  changing  color,  as  he  looked, 
from  ochre  to  dark-purple  or  velvet-brown,  according  to 
the  age  of  the  furrows  or  the  blackness  of  the  shadowing 
clouds,  and  with  a  bloom  on  them  like  that  of  the 
plum.  Surely  no  earth  ever  looked  like  this  Yirginian 
earth,  and  no  skies  could  be  as  ethereal  as  these  Yirgin- 
ian skies,  and  no  mountains  so  gi^and  and  noble  as  his 
own  Virginian  mountains !  His  eyes  filled  with  tears 
as  he  watched  the  cloud-shadows  that  swept  down 
them,  the  sunbursts  that  illuminated  them.  Ay !  after 
all  wanderings  he  had  got  back  to  the  land!  The  land 
to  live  in,  and  to  die  for !  In  spite  of  all  sorrows,  it  was 
a  joy  to  see  it  again  that  pierced  his  very  heart  W'ith 
its  sweetness.  When  he  got  to  his  own  gate,  the  great 
apple-tree  near  it  showered  down  a  lovely  welcome 
upon  him.  He  saw  a  neat  woman's  figure  in  the  back- 
yard ;  a  pink  sun-bonnet.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  brain, 
carrying  a  wild  thought  about  his  dead  wife,  and  then 
receded  again,  leaving  him  very  pale.     Perceiving  that 


46  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

he  was  there  and  that  he  still  halted,  the  woman  ap- 
proached, crossed  her  red  arms  over  the  fence,  pushed 
back  her  bonnet,  revealing  an  ugly  face  that  he  easily 
recognized,  if  not  the  modest  beauty  of  the  one  he  had 
thought  of,  smiled  in  a  way  that  emphatically  illus- 
trated the  truth  that  some  people  gain  by  being  amiable 
and  others  lose  (such  a  toothless  waste  of  gum  showed 
blankly  there),  and  challenged  the  stranger  to  a  flirta- 
tion or  explanation,  or  both.  "  What  might  yer  want, 
anyways?  Won't  yer  'light?"  she  said.  "I  never 
noticed  yer  at  first." 

"  Do  you  know  me  now  ?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  archly.  "  No,  I  ain't  never  seen 
yer  before,  but  I  reckon  I'll  know  yer  next  time." 

"  I  know  you.  You  are  Aunt  Martha's  younger 
sister,  Jinny  Hodges,"  said  he. 

"And  who  are  yer,  anyways,  that  knows  me?"  she 
asked,  eagerly. 

"  I'm  John  Shore." 

"  Mercy  on  us  !  It  never  ain't  I  Sakes  alive !  John 
Shore!"  she  cried.  "  Whur  did  j^er  come  from? 
Whur've  yer  been  at  all  this  time  ?  Mercy  me  !  Folks 
said  you  was  dead.  Well  I  I  declare !  John  Shore  I 
Al's  Pa-ap !" 

It  was  some  moments  before  she  composed  herself 
sufficiently  to  suggest  again  that  he  should  "  'light  and 
come  in,"  and  then,  leading  the  way,  she  made  a  very 
pertinent  inquiry, — "  What  did  yer  come  back  fur,  any- 
ways, John?  Walk  right  in!  Al !  All  He  ain't  here. 
He  ain't  come  home  yet.  My  sakes  I  And  yer  ain't 
dead  at  all.  And  what  brung  yer  home  ?  Marthy 
always  said  yer'd  come.     Set  down.     I  declare  to  gra- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  47 

cious !  I  can't  believe  it.  Seems  like  it  couldn't  be. 
But  yer  ain't  told  yet  what  brung  yer?  And  yer  ain't 
never  been  dead,  of  course.  It  takes  the  rag  off  the 
bush  !  It  certainly  does."  Without  waiting  for  a  reply 
she  clattered  on  and  on,  while  John  Shore  looked  about 
him  dreamily,  only  half  catching  what  was  said. 

"Yes,  me  and  Al's  been  livin'  on  here  ever  since 
Marthy  deceased,  together,  and  many's  the  time  Al,  he's 
said  to  me,  '  I'm  master  here,  Jinny,  and  you  shall  stay 
here  always.  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  turn  yer  out  no- 
ways,' "  she  went  on,  and,  not  getting  any  response  from 
her  companion,  she  said,  tentatively,  with  raised  voice, 
"That  was  when  you  was  dead,  John,  I  mean.  Yes, 
me  and  him's  always  been  the  best  of  friends." 

John  Shore  came  back  to  the  present,  and  perfectly 
understood  the  drift  of  her  remarks. 

"J  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  the  one  to  turn  you  out.  Jinny," 
he  said,  kindly.  "  Don't  you  be  afeard  of  that, — nor  Al, 
neither.  You've  stayed  here  right  straight  along  and 
took  care  of  him,  and  you've  got  a  better  right  to  be 
here  than  me.  And  I  wouldn't  turn  out  no  woman  no- 
way. A  woman  without  a  roof  over  her  head  is  like  a 
turtle  without  a  shell.  ]S"o,  no ;  I  come  home  because 
I  heerd  they  was  goin'  to  jump  on  old  Virginia  and 
stawmp  her,  and  I  couldn't  stay  'way  after  that.  I  was 
gettin'  on  right  well,  then,  out  there, — mighty  well  fur 
me, — but  it  seemed  like  I  laid  on  a  care-bed  after  that 
news  come.  I  couldn't  sleep  nor  rest ;  and  I  hadn't  no 
peace  in  my  mind,  I  wuz  so  oneasy.  At  last  it  all  come 
clear  to  me.  It  said  plain  as  I'm  speakin'  this  minute, 
'  Shame  on  you ;  you  are  a  mean-sperrited  coward  !  Ef 
your  mother  was  struck,  would  you  stop  to  think  of 


48  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

houses,  and  beds,  and  sich  stuff?'  And  next  day  I  sold 
all  I  had  and  started." 

"  Did  you  get  the  wuth  of  'em  ?  Lor'  no  !  of  course 
not,"  said  she.  "  Goin'  to  the  war  ?  Why,  yer 
mighty  simple.  I  don't  see  as  you've  got  no  call  to  go 
to  no  war,  John.  Some  sez  there  ain't  goin'  to  be 
none,  'cause  the  Yankees  '11  run  away,  and  some  sez  it's 
goin'  to  be  turrible.  The  Eidge  has  been  blue-black 
lately,  and  the  sun's  set  for  blood  over  and  over  agin. 
Pretty  nigh  twenty  men  from  round  'bout  here  sez  they 
are  goin'  if  it  comes,  and  when  all  twenty  gits  to  fightin' 
with  maybe  twenty  or  thirty  more  of  them,  it'll  be  tur- 
rible !  Somebody  '11  get  hurt  with  that  foolishness  yet, 
and  'pears  to  me  hke  they'd  all  better  go  to  ploughin'  and 
stop  this  here  talk  'bout  fightin'.  If  you'll  hearken  to 
me,  you'll  not  go  mixin'  yourself  up  with  no  sich  doin's, 
no  way  they  fix  it,  John.  You  ain't  dead  now,  though 
I've  been  told  time  and  again  cornstant  that  you  wuz ; 
but  you'll  be  killed  dead  before  you're  done  soldierin' — 
mark  my  words,  for  you'll  live  to  see  it, — sure  enough 
dead  and  no  come  back  this  time.  When  they  talk  to 
me  'bout  this  here  scare-all,  I  sez,  '  Stay  at  home  and 
mind  your  own  business,  all  of  yer,  and  there  won't  he 
no  war.'  So  thafs  what  brung  yer.  Why,  yer  might 
as  well  have  been  dead  as  to  go  get  killed,  John.  Now 
hadn*tyer?" 

"  Tell  me  'bout  Al,"  he  replied,  waiving  all  argument 
on  the  subject.  "  Is  he  Uke — her — his  mother  ?  and  is 
he  strong  and  healthy?" 

Jinny,  still  staring  at  him  and  nervously  swinging 
her  bonnet  by  one  string  now,  not  only  replied  to  this 
question,  but   talked   almost  without  interruption  for 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  49 

half  an  hour,  and  with  only  such  cessation  as  was 
necessary  in  order  to  catch  a  gasping  breath.  Once 
in  her  voluble  flow  of  narrative  she  stopped  to  whip 
off  a  slipper  and  throw  it  with  a  loud  "  Shoo  1  shoo  I"  at 
some  chickens  that  were  coming  in,  which  caused  a 
great  scramble  and  flutter  among  them,  a  rush  of  wings, 
and  one  or  two  loud  squawks  of  alarm ;  but  this  was 
only  a  momentary  diversion,  and  she  rattled  on  after  it 
until  her  listener's  head  fairly  buzzed  with  the  effort 
required  to  keep  up  with  her.  "  Jinny  always  wuz  a 
talker,"  thought  he,  "  but  when  she  gets  the  band  on 
the  wheel  now,  she  goes  round  like  she  would  set  fire 
to  something  or  fly  all  to  pieces."  When  she  had  said 
all  there  was  to  say  on  each  subject  that  crowded  into 
her  mind  she  ended  it  with  some  allusion  to  his  reported 
death  which  had  much  the  effect  of  selah  in  the  Psalms, 
returning  to  this  fixed  idea  by  every  conceivable  high- 
way and  byway.  It  was  too  firmly  planted  among  her 
convictions  to  be  lightly  relinquished.  At  last,  just  as 
she  had  opened  her  mouth  wide  and  secured  the  essen- 
tial condition  to  further  conversation,  a  side-issue  struck 
full  upon  the  unexhausted  and  inexhaustible  stores 
of  her  experience,  and  she  jumped  up,  exclaiming, 
"  Lor',  yer  ain't  had  no  supper.  Yer'll  want  some- 
thing to  eat,"  but  even  then  she  she  only  stopped  long 
enough  to  seize  the  bread-pan  and  rolling-pin.  Making 
vigorous  use  of  these,  she  chattered  and  clattered  away 
to  John  Shore  on  the  hypothesis  that  he  was  his  own 
ghost  with  the  most  characteristic  perversity  of  ingen- 
uity until  the  biscuits  were  in  the  stove.  ^'IS'ow,  John, 
make  yerself  at  home.  Do  jest  as  if  yer'd  always 
been  alive  and  livin'  here,"  she  then  said,  and  dashing 
c       d  5 


50  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

into  her  l»onnet,  rushed  out  to  disseminate  the  great 
news,  leaving  him  very  much  of  a  shade,  in  feehng  at 
least,  among  the  fast-gathering  shadows. 

She  was  back  again  before  long ;  but  it  was  in  her 
absence  that  father  and  son  met.  Hearing  the  door 
open,  John  Shore  had  risen  impulsively  and  gone 
towards  the  figure  diml}^  visible  there,  saying,  "Alfred! 
Ain't  it  you,  Alfred?  My  son!  My  son!"  and  so  had 
fallen  upon  the  neck  of  an  astonished  youth.  She  found 
them  sitting  opposite  each  other  "svhen  she  came  in,  and 
it  was  but  a  dissolving  view  that  the  elder  man  got  of 
her  when  she  lit  the  lamp,  which  showed  him  Alfred, 
his  chair  tilted  back  against  the  wall,  his  legs  twisted 
awkwardly  among  the  rounds,  his  hands  thrust  deep 
in  his  pockets,  sustaining  with  round  eyes  and  red 
cheeks  an  embarrassing  experience.  Look  as  earnestly 
as  he  would,  John  Shore  could  find  no  trace  of  resem- 
blance between  the  boy  and  his  dead  mother,  except 
an  occasional  transient  expression  about  the  eyes ;  but 
even  that  awoke  in  him  so  many  vivid  memories  of 
her  that  he  fell  into  an  absorbed  revery  in  which  self- 
reproach  predominated.  His  wife  seemed  to  be  asking 
in  every  such  glance  why  he  had  left  her — their  son  to 
be  reared  by  strangers.  A  more  stolid,  clumsy  specimen 
of  the  commonplace  clod-hopping  youth  than  Alfred 
could  not  have  been  found  ;  for  not  only  had  the  poetical 
strain  with  which  his  father  had  been  blessed  or  cursed . 
been  left  out  of  his  composition  entirely,  but  he  was 
invincibly  dull  of  perception, — a  thing-like  person  who 
might  have  raised  unpleasant  doubts  as  to  the  immor 
tality  of  the  soul  in  some  minds,  so  little  sensitive  to 
impressions  and  sensations  was  he,  so  mildly  vegetable 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  51 

rather  than  animal,  as  if  made  to  live  for  to-day,  to  be 
cast  in  the  oven  to-morrow.  "  Slow  and  fearsome"  the 
Mountain  called  him,  and  added,  "  but  trusty." 

Something  in  him  had  responded  to  that  cry,  "  My 
son!" — an  unsuspected  echo  such  as  nature  keeps  and 
reveals  in  the  most  unlikely  places, — and  when  he  had 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  hearing  it  he  received  his 
father's  deprecating  advances  with  an  awkward  kindli- 
ness that  increased  his  sense  of  unworthiness,  and 
aroused  a  keen  feeling  of  gratitude,  though  it  was  a 
good-will  expressed  in  no  more  demonstrative  ways  or 
words  than  a  most  protracted,  inexpressive  stare,  an 
occasional  vacant  smile,  and  a  casual  "  Ter  don't  say," 
or  "  That's  so,"  or  "  Yer  right  there." 

"Yer  didn't  think  yer'd  come  home  and  find  yer 
Pa-ap  come  to  life  agin,  now  did  yer?"  queried  Jinny, 
as  she  moved  briskly  about  the  room.  "  Ef  I  had  of 
died  myself  and  been  buried,  I  couldn't  er  been  no  cer- 
tainer  of  Ij^in'  in  my  grave  forever  and  ever.  And  him 
settin'  there  without  no  windin'  sheet  nor  nothing  as 
alive  as  you  or  me  or  the  next  one,  after  being  dead 
nigh  on  fifteen  years,  and  a  sperrit  among  the  sperrits ! 
It  beats  all  that  ever  I  heerd,  and  they  wouldn't  believe 
me,  and  no  wonder  when  I  told  'em — (come  to  supper) 
— and  I  sez, '  Come  and  see,  ef  yer  don't  believe  me,  and 
I  don't  blame  yer  for  not  believin'  me,  for  I  didn't  be- 
lieve myself  (the  biscuits  is  getting  cold)  ;  and  that's 
the  truth,  and  while  I  live  I'll  never  say  agin  that 
nobody  is  dead,  nor  believe  it,  not  if  I  carries  the  coffin 
(set  down,  John  ;  take  the  foot  of  the  table)  and  spades 
the  dirt  in  on  'em  myself!  And  they'll  all  be  here  pretty 
quick,  and  yer'd  better  hurry  up  and  git  a  bite  down 


52  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

(that  risin'  of  Sally's  ain't  worth  shucks)  before  they 
gits  here  to  see  yer  alive  and  brcathin'  the  breath  of  life 
for  theirselves,  for  the  news  is  offscnt  by  this,  I  can 
tell  yer."  The  bung  once  out  of  the  conversational 
barrel,  Jinny's  eloquence  would  have  flowed  on  for  the 
evening,  but  she  had  not  underrated  the  reportorial 
capacity  of  the  female  tongue  at  its  best,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  interruptions  came.  Before  the  sun  dropped 
behind  the  western  hills,  every  family  and  cottage  for 
miles  around  had  received  an  electric  shock  that  did  as 
well  as  a  telegraphic  despatch,  saying,  "John  Shore  has 
come  home." 

The  Mountain  for  once  was  completely  taken  aback. 
The  Mountain  masculine  got  almost  excited  and  said, 
"  Well,  I'll  be  doggoned !" — was  even  more  emphatic. 
The  Mountain  feminine  grew  shrill  and  voluble  with  its 
own  exclamations  and  explanations.  The  Mountain 
feminine  and  masculine  trudged  off  to  see  if  half  the 
wonderful  tidings  could  be  true.  "  John  Shore,  back," 
"from  Texis,"  "goin'  to  the  war,"  "three  hundred 
dollars  in  his  pocket,"  "  ownin'  his  horse,"  "  all  dressed 
up,"  was  the  last  figure  that  could  have  been  expected. 
The  elders  were  puzzled  for  a  moment,  staggered  by 
such  evidences  of  respectability  and  prosperity.  They 
felt  the  necessity  of  investigating  these  rumors  and 
winnowing  the  chaff  from  all  this  wheat,  if  it  was 
wheat, — more  likely  tares.  The  nearest  neighbors  got 
there  first,  of  course,  and  Jinny,  full  of  the  delightful 
excitement  of  having  a  ghost  on  exhibition,  hailed  them 
cheerfully  from  afar  with,  "  Come  in!  Come  right  in  ! 
There  he  sets!  Meat  and  bones,  as  you  see  I  Pinch  him 
ef  yer  don't  believe  me !    He  ain't  no  stiff,  nor  no  spcrrit. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  53- 

neither !  ha !  ha !  ha  !"  A  fresh  batch  of  arrivals  put  an 
end  to  the  lecture  she  would  fain  have  delivered  on  her 
interesting  "  subject,"  and  from  that  moment  she  was 
kept  so  busy  welcoming  her  guests  that  she  could  only- 
whisper  here  and  there,  "  Warn't  I  telling  yer  the  truth, 
now  ?  M' ain't  he  lively  and  limber  for  a  stiff?  S' ain't 
he,  now?"  She  had  to  be  mistress  of  ceremonies,  for 
Alfred  no  sooner  saw  them  beginning  to  assemble  than 
he  picked  up  a  stick,  got  out  his  jack-knife,  and  sought 
refuge  from  social  duties  and  domestic  complications  in 
whittling.  By  the  time  supper  was  over  the  whole 
population  of  the  lane  had  slouched  into  and  around 
the  old  cottage, — "  Shore's,"  as  they  put  it, — down  to 
the  babies  that  could  not  be  left  at  home  for  obvious 
reasons,  and  Grandma  Williams,  stone-deaf  and  franti- 
cally curious ;  down  to  the  very  dogs.  "  Well,  ef  this 
ain't  as  good  as  a  buryin' !"  said  Jinny,  with  her  most 
beaming  smile,  as  she  gave  the  old  woman  a  seat  as 
close  to  the  corpse  of  her  simile  as  possible, — a  position 
which  only  made  G-oody  Williams  more  aggravatingly 
aware  of  her  infirmity  than  ever,  and  caused  her  to  cry 
''Hainh?  What's  that?"  at  intervals  of  about  five 
minutes  all  during  her  stay.  It  was  soon  impossible  to 
improvise  another  seat,  but  still  they  came.  Not  viva- 
ciously, or  noisily,  but  slowly,  solemnly,  greeting  John 
Shore  without  enthusiasm,  very  much  as  though  he  had 
left  them  the  day  before,  regarding  him  with  expression- 
less eyes  in  which  no  beam  of  humor  or  friendliness 
relieved  a  fixed  stare ;  summoning  him,  as  it  were,  to 
give  an  account  of  himself,  and  justify,  if  he  could, 
conduct  so  unprecedented.  Alfred  was  chief  inquisitor, 
or  seemed  so  to  John  Shore,  in  spite  of  his  youth.  Find- 
s' 


^4  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

ing  himself  set  before  this  tribunal,  John  Shore  said 
what  he  could  for  himself.  He  could  do  no  less,  but  it 
came  to  very  little.  He  touched  lightly  on  his  reasons 
for  leaving  Virginia,  but  gave  the  impression  that  he 
was  attempting  to  gloss  over  a  serious  offence.  He  gave 
some  account  of  his  travels, — they  were  not  interested 
in  will-o'-the-wisp  chases  in  the  mountains  of  the  moon. 
He  stated  what  his  circumstances  were, — they  were 
what  might  have  been  expected,  the  elders  thought. 
Such  fruits  as  insight  and  experience  were  but  unsub- 
stantial gains  in  the  face  of  such  facts  as  cropped  out, 
— the  horse  he  was  riding  was  not  his  own ;  he  had  but 
five  dollars  in  his  pocket!  His  patriotism  passed  for 
the  windy  utterances  of  a  man  who  had  nothing  to  lose 
by  commotions  and  disturbances.  His  desire  to  see  his 
old  home  even  counted  ao-ainst  him.  He  ou^ht  not  to 
have  gone  away,  they  argued,  but  having  gone  he  should 
have  stayed.  The  folly  of  travelling  was  clearer  than 
ever.  The  peace  party  was  strengthened  by  the  fact 
that  John  Shore  was  going  to  the  war.  It  showed  what 
war  was. 

Brother  White  (a  tottering  old  man  now,  as  unstable 
in  body  as  faith,  but  still  a  voice  for  the  community) 
expressed  the  general  feeling  when  he  rose  from  the  oak 
settee  and  said,  "Weill  I  never  was  one  to  go  around, 
and  about,  and  above,  and  below,  and  hither,  and  yon, 
and  thither,  and  beyant ;  a-goin'  off,  and  a-rcturnin'  on, 
and  a-leavin'  behind,  and  a-settlin'  around,  a-deceivin', 
and  a-surprisin',  and  a-piratin',  and  a-pirootin'.  But  an 
if  I  had  of  been  obliged,  and  obleeged,  and  obligated, 
and  bound,  and  constrained  to  leave  my  home,  and  mj'- 
friends,  and  my  kin,  and  my  kindred,  and  my  kindred's 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  55 

kindred,  I'd  have  gone,  and  have  went,  and  have  re- 
mained, and  stayed  wherever  and  whithersoever  that 
place  or  places,  or  person  or  persons,  put  me.  But  it  is 
for  folks  to  choose  or  to  leave ;  and  to  have  and  to  hold  ; 
and  to  scatter  or  to  gather ;  and  the  stony  rocks  is  for 
the  conies,  and  the  green  meadoVs  for  them  that  lies 
down.  And  as  for  goin'  to  this  here  war^  I'm  an  old 
man,  and  a  weak  man,  and  a  lame  man,  and  a  bent 
man  that  can't  be  driv,  nor  led,  nor  carried  forth,  nor 
borne  along  to  no  war,  nor  warrings,  nor  fights,  nor 
fightings.  Whereas.  I  sez  to  the  young,  and  the  strong, 
and  the  foolish,  and  the  foolhardy — I  sez :  '  Wait,  and 
hold  on,  and  pause  and  consider,  and  consMer  agin 
when  you've  paused,  and  pause  agin  when  you've  con- 
sidered, and  reflect  when  you've  paused  and  considered, 
before  you  go  to  no  war.'  For  what  is  war  ?  It's  fightin\ 
and  you've  got  to  fight  or  he  fit.  And  it's  stahhin\  and 
you've  got  to  stab  or  git  stabbed,  one.  And  it's  shootin\ 
and  you've  got  to  shoot  or  to  git  shot,  sure.  And  it's 
stealing  and  you've  got  to  steal  or  git  stole  from.  And  it's 
hurnin\  and  you've  got  to  burn  or  git  burnt  out.  It's 
hoUerin',  and  hoUerbadoin',  and  hellerbaloonin'.  That's 
what  it  is.  It's  rampagin',  and  rumpagin'.  It's  travellin', 
and  movin'.  It's  a-handlin'  of  guns,  and  turnin'  over  of 
pistols,  and  a-regyardin'  of  all  kinds  of  weepons  prone 
to  go  off  and  not  to  be  laid  down  until  the  time  cometh. 
It's  death,  and  destruction,  and  ruination,  and  a-gettin' 
kilt  or  a-killin', — for  whom?  and  for  what?  and  for 
which  ?  And  none  can  tell,  nor  discover,  nor  make  plain 
the  end  thereof  from  the  beginning,  but  yet  all  knoweth 
that  it  overwhelmeth  !  And  what  sort  of  a  kind  of  a 
thing  is  this — to  go  a-seekin'  for,  and  lookin'  after,  and 


56  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

a-searchin'  into,  and  a-stirrin'  up,  and  a  meddlin'  with, 
and  a-pesterin'  about,  anyways — this  here  war?  Let 
them  as  are  runagates  continuing  in  scarceness  go  after, 
and  pursue,  and  follow  on,  and  lead  forth,  and  cause  to 
be  led  forth  to  the  slaughter,  a-talkin'  of  '  South  and 
North,'  and  'East  and'West,'  and  'Union  and  disunion,' 
like  as  if  they  owned  the  Mountain.  Well  stay  right 
here,  whur  we've  always  stayed,  and  do  jes'  like  we've 
always  done."  lie  looked  frowningly  around  from  his 
seat  near  the  door  as  he  concluded  at  the  war-party 
represented  primarily  by  John  Shore,  and  then  by  a 
few  very  young  men  whose  minds  had  been  mildly  in- 
flamed by  current  rumors  and  speeches,  and  mopped 
his  wrinkled  face  and  bald  head  acrimoniously  with 
wrathful  sweeps  of  his  coat-sleeve. 

"  Well,  now,  Jake,  I  dunno  'bout  that,"  said  Bub  Wil- 
liams, upon  whom  the  speaker's  eye  had  last  rested, — 
Bub  Williams,  the  best  shot  on  the  Mountain,  and  the 
hardest  drinker,  with  a  finger  that  seemed  to  get  steady 
the  moment  it  touched  a  trigger,  no  matter  what  was 
the  state  of  his  nerves.  *'  Maybe  there's  times  and 
seasons.  The  case  looks  to  me  this  way.  Ef  old  Yir- 
ginny  was  to  say  go,  I'd  go.  She  knows  what's  right, 
and  she'll  do  what's  right  every  time,  en  ef  she  called 
I'd  have  to  light  out  and  do  the  best  I  could  for  her. 
Fair  and  square  and  softly  scz  I  ef  you  kin,  and  when 
you  kain't,  give  the  other  side  Hail  Columbia.  The 
Yankees  ain't  done  nothin'  to  me  as  I  knows  on,  but  ef 
they  tech  Yirginny  I'm  there  !  My  old  rifle  ain't  wuth 
much,"  he  concluded,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  that 
somehow  rippled  down  all  his  lazy,  good-humored  per- 
son as  he  sat  half  doubled  up  in  the  window-seat,  "  but 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  57 

I  reckon  I  can  give  'em  a  salute  V  The  young  men 
laughed  at  this,  and  John  Shore  and  Bub  exchanged  a 
glance  of  mutual  understanding  which  Brother  White 
caught  and  resented.  He  was  about  to  begin  an  angry 
remonstrance  with  "  Oh,  yes,  there's  two  of  you  and  a 
pair  of  you,"  when  Bub's  father,  Zach,  a  man  of  great 
weight,  moral  and  avoirdupois,  picked  up  his  felt  hat 
and  running  it  through  his  fingers  back  and  forth  said 
gruffly,  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  no  more  talk  of  goin'  to 
no  war,  Bub.  Leave  fightin'  to  the  fools  that  likes  it. 
You've  got  something  else  to  do.  You've  got  to  plough, 
and  to  sow,  and  to  reap,  and  to  harrow,  and  to  stack  corn, 
and  to  pitch  hay,  and  to  cut  ice,  and  to  butcher  pigs, — 
that's  what  you've  got  to  do.  What's  the  wages  of 
a  soldier,  anyways  ?  What's  it  all  about,  anyways  ?  I 
ain't  heerd  no  plain,  sensible  account  of  it  yet  from 
nobody.  I  ain't  goin'  out  to  fight  nobody  I  ain't  got 
no  quarrel  with,  and  ef  they  comes  down  here  to  fight 
me — well,  they  ain't  come  yet.  Govermint  ain't  never 
put  clothes  on  my  back  nor  my  children's,  nor  food  in 
my  stomach  nor  my  children's,  and  I  don't  reckon 
they  ever  will ;  so  I'll  stay  where  I  can  do  it  myself, 
and  let  'em  find  out  what  they  are  fightin'  about  ef 
they  kin,  and  fight  it  out  theirselves  when  they  do. 
What's  govermints  to  me?"  Nobody  undertook  to 
answer  this  question,  but  it  was  a  signal  for  a  general 
discussion  of  the  issue  before  them,  in  which  the 
women  joined  with  much  spirit,  and  when  the  general 
fusillade  of  talk  had  abated,  the  elders  successively 
gave  their  views.  The  constituent  elements  of  the 
company  were  those  of  all  assemblies,  as  very  soon 
appeared.      There   was    the    prophet,   who   had   seen 


58  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

and  known  that  there  would  be  a  war,  and  that  very- 
war  ever  since  he  was  born  and  for  ages  before, — the 
man  who  predicted  ruin  for  the  South  and  ruin  for  the 
North  with  the  perfect  impartiality  and  the  gloomy- 
satisfaction  of  the  raven;  the  man  who  weighed  the 
probabilities,  and  announced  future  results  with  the 
skilled  ambiguity  of  the  almanac-seer;  the  man  who 
could  have  averted  all  such  dangers  and  greater  disas- 
ters if  he  had  been  "govermint,"  but  whose  valuable 
advice  was  somehow  never  taken.  And  then  John 
Shore  leaned  forward  and  smote  his  knee  with  his  right 
hand,  and,  with  flushed  cheek  and  sparkling  eyes,  spoke 
out  all  his  simple,  loyal  creed.  "  It  ain't  govermint," 
he  cried :  "  it's  Virginia !"  and  went  on  to  declare  briefly 
his  thoughts  and  intentions.  The  elders  listened  frown- 
ingly,  unconvinced  and  displeased.  Some  of  the  younger 
men's  faces  feebly  reflected  his  ardor,  and  as  he  looked 
from  one  to  another  he  felt  the  chill  of  the  orator  who 
is  not  en  rapport  with  his  audience  until  he  came  to 
Timothy  White.  A  gleam  as  of  the  sun  or  steel  was  in 
those  cold  light  eyes, — a  spark  without  warmth.  As  he 
caught  John's  glance,  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  sudden 
resolution,  his  face  turned  crimson.  "  i'm  going  to  this 
war  for  one.  I'll  be  damned  if  I  don't!"  he  said,  and, 
throwing  his  hat  down  on  the  floor  with  a  passionate 
gesture,  he  walked  out  of  the  room.  If  Eound  Hill  had 
got  up  and  challenged  Mars  to  single  combat,  the  Little 
Mountainites  could  not  have  been  one  whit  more 
amazed.  Tim  White!  the  silent,  taciturn,  undemonstra- 
tive Tim  White,  the  most  stolid  of  the  stolid,  the 
quietest  of  the  quiet, — he  whom  neither  love,  nor  hate, 
nor  religion  had  ever  moved  to  open  his  lips  in  any 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  59 

sort  of  profession  or  confession,  who  had  never  yet 
given  that  "  experience,"  to  behave  as  he  had  done !  It 
deprived  the  most  fluent  of  speech,  and  took,  as  they 
said,  the  breath  out  of  their  bodies.  What  a  time  it 
must  be  in  which  the  dumb  spoke  and  the  grave  gave 
up  its  dead  !  At  last,  its  curiosity  slaked,  and  its  work 
waiting  to  be  done,  the  company,  with  scant  ceremony 
and  rustic  farewells,  dispersed  as  slowly  and  slouchingly 
as  it  had  gathered.  The  women-folk  lingered  a  little 
with  Jinny  on  the  steps,  listening  to  her  post-mortem 
confidences,  and  they  saw  Timothy  White  off  under  a 
tree  smoking. 

"  Who'd  ha'  thought  he'd  spit  out  like  that !  Bub's 
always  said  he  hadn't  spunk  enough  to  git  married,  or 
set  up  with  a  corpse,  or  do  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Williams, 
junior,  indicating  the  distant  figure  with  a  wave  of  her 
sun-bonnet.  "  And  I  never  heerd  of  him  being  a  drink- 
ing man." 

"  They're  all  drunk.  That's  about  what's  the  matter," 
said  Mrs.  Williams,  senior,  severely ;  "  though  it  ain't 
liquor  this  time.  And  if  they  go  on,  and  go  on,  till 
they  jaw  us  into  a  war,  there'll  be  trouble  and  to  spare 
for  us  women,  I  can  tell  you.  The  fools  that  fights  gets 
killed  mostly,  but  we've  got  to  live  it  out.''  With  the 
intuition  of  her  sex,  Mrs.  Williams  had  got  at  the 
heart  of  the  question  so  far  as  it  affected  the  weaker 
vessel. 

When  Jinny  re-entered  the  cottage,  she  said,  "  Well, 
Pa-ap,  your  bed's  done  made  up,  and  I  know  you'll  say 
in  the  morning,  'Jinny,  I  never  slep'  no  better  not  in 
my  grave'  and  when  you  git  up  I'm  goin'  to  give  you  a 
breakfast  that'll  make  you  glad  to  have  rose  from  the 


60  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

cold  tomb ;  and  I  am  glad  you've  come  home,  even 
though  being  dead,  John ;  and  ef  you  want  any  water 
there's  the  pump ;  and  ef  you  holler,  Al'U  hear  you 
and  come  right  in  j  and  there's  the  washin'  to-morrow  I 
So  now  I  am  off,  and  I  hope  you  ain't  a  sleep-walker 
now  you've  left  off  bein'  a  ghost,  John,  for  I  always 
was  scary  of  nights  and  thought  I  seed  sperrits  round, 
and  didn't  like  the  looks  of  sheets  on  the  clothes-line" 
(here  she  briskly  closed  the  shutters,  locked  the  front 
door,  and  resumed  from  the  next  room  without  any 
break  in  her  narrative),  "  and  there  ain't  no  grave-yards 
'bout  here  for  you  to  go  to  and  walk  about  in,  so  there 
ain't  no  call  for  you  to  stir  till  day  breaks"  (here  she 
began  mounting  the  steps).  "And,  lor!  you  may  be 
sure  I'll  look  under  my  bed  this  night,  for  I  ain't  used 
to  sleepin'  in  the  house  with  stiffs,  and  it  sorter  makes 
me  creep  and  crawl  down  the  back,  if  you'll  excuse  me 
sayin'  so  and  mean  in'  no  offence  to  you,  seein'  you  are 
alive,  as  you  say,  John"  (here  she  got  to  the  head  of 
the  flight  and  paused  on  the  landing) ;  "  and  if  you 
should  feel  kinder  lonesome  and  laid  out,  John,  when 
you  get  in  bed,  there's  a  candle  stuck  in  a  bottle  a-pur- 
pose  settin'  by,  and  ef  you  light  it  maybe  you'll  feel 
easier."  Here  she  closed  her  bedroom  door,  but  opening 
it  almost  immediately,  called  out,  "John  I  John  I  don't 
set  up  late!  Don't  you,  now.  It'll  jes'  give  me  canip- 
tion  fits  ef  I  hear  yer  movin'  round  about  twelve  o'clock 
in  the  dark  rattlin'  your  bones  like.  Do  yer  hear,  John? 
Lock  yer  door.     Lock  j-erself  in — ef  yer  can." 

"All  right,  Jinny.  What  are  you  afeard  of?  Go 
to  bed,"  he  called  back,  and  the  door  closed  again,  this 
time  for  the  night.    "  You  hcerd  all  that  was  said  'bout 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  61 

this  war,  Al,"  said  his  father,  after  a  silence  that  had 
lasted  some  moments.     "Are  you  a-goin'  to  it?" 

Alfred  tossed  backward  the  tan-colored  locks  that 
were  always  falling  over  his  placid,  moony  face. 

"Ko,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  fur  gettin'  killed.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  budge.  I  don't  want  to  kill  no  person.  I'm 
goin'  to  stay  right  here." 

His  father's  face  flushed.  He  opened  his  lips  to 
remonstrate  and  changed  his  mind.  "  I  should  ha' 
thought  you  wouldn't  be  willin'  to  do  that,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  ain't  been  no  sort  of  a  father  to  you,  and  I  can't 
say  no  more  than  I'd  ha'  thought  you  couldn't  rest  at 
home  ef  trouble  comes." 

"  I  ain't  a-goin',"  repeated  Alfred,  placidly,  and  there 
was  another  pause. 

"  You  are  glad  to  see  me,  ain't  you,  Al  ?  You  don't 
feel  no  set  aginst  me  fur  goin'  away  and  leavin'  you?" 
the  father  asked,  in  a  low  voice  and  hesitatingly. 

"No,"  replied  Al.     "  I  don't." 

"Couldn't  you — couldn't  you  love  me  a  little,  don't 
you  think  ?  I^ot  now,  but  some  time  ?"  said  the  father, 
with  a  tremble  in  his  voice.  "  Say  you  are  glad  to  see 
me,  Al,"  he  urged,  leaning  eagerly  forward. 

"  I  am  glad,  Pa-ap.  Eight  down  glad,"  replied  Alfred, 
kindly  impelled  to  satisfy  the  hunger  and  thirst  that 
he  dimly  divined  and  wondered  at. 

"  Thank  you,  Al !  Thank  you,  my  son  !"  cried  his 
father,  and  impulsively  seizing  one  of  his  hands  he 
kissed  it,  and  then  rising  walked  rapidly  into  the  next 
room  and  shut  the  door. 

Left  alone,  Alfred  looked  attentively  at  the  large 
freckled  member  so  passionately  saluted,  as  if  to  read 

6 


62  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

there  the  secret  of  his  father's  extraordinary  conduct. 
''Well!  I'll  be  derned!"  he  said,  and  re-tilting  his  chair 
against  the  wall  sat  almost  motionless  for  fully  an  hour. 
He  often  fell  into  this  semi-comatose  state.  One  could 
not  call  it  a  trance,  for  he  was  not  asleep ;  nor  a  stupor, 
for  he  was  not  stunned;  nor  a  meditation,  for  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  think  of  anything,  though  on  this 
occasion  it  had  something  of  all  three,  so  much  had 
happened  to  daze  and  confound  him.  That  he  had  one 
idea  was  shown  by  his  yawning  prodigiously  at  last 
and  saying,  "PoorPa-ap,"  as  his  eye  fell  again  upon 
his  right  hand,  after  which  he,  too,  betook  himself  to 
bed. 

The  second  of  July  is  a  noted  day  in  the  Mountain 
calendar  always,  and  was  marked  b}^  a  special  event 
this  year,  remembered  and  recalled  for  maif)'  a  year 
after.  It  is  known  as  "  the  day  the  Virgin  Mary  takes 
her  visit,"  and  if  any  inquirer,  surprised  to  find  this 
curious  bit  of  Catholic  mosaic  inserted  in  a  stony  and 
colorless  stretch  of  Protestant  pavement,  asks  any- 
thing more  about  it,  he  is  told  that  it  is  "a  sign," — 
usually,  "my  father's  sign,"  or  "my  grandfather's  sign," 
to  give  it  the  supreme  stamp  of  authority.  It  is  then 
explained  that  if  it  rains  on  that  day  the  crops  are 
sure  to  be  as  satisfactory  as  crops  ever  are  to  the 
farmer;  and  that  if  it  does  not  rain  on  that  day  a  six 
weeks'  drought  may  be  looked  for,  since  not  a  drop  will 
the  heavens  vouchsafe  until  "the  Lady  returns  back  to 
her  own  home."  This  being  the  case,  it  was  natural 
that  in  an  agricultural  community  in  which  this  un- 
poetical  version  of  the  Visitation  was  generally  accepted 
the  day  that  gave  good  or  poor  crops  was  anxiously 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  63 

expected  before  it  arrived  and  inspected  when  it  came. 
But  this  year  it  was  actually  a  matter  of  secondary 
interest,  for  the  axe  had  fallen,  the  die  had  been  cast, 
Virginia  had  seceded,  and  this  was  also  the  day  set  for 
"the  soldiers  (by  brevet)  to  go  to  the  war."  By  mid- 
day the  Eed  Lane  was  thronged  with  limp  female 
figures  in  long  sun-bonnets,  having  baskets  on  their 
arms,  full  of  all  manner  of  possible  and  impossible  last 
things  to  be  offered  to  or  thrust  upon  the  "  Shenandoah 
Scouts,"  as  the  company  was  called,  and  the  fences  were 
lined  with  children  bent  since  daylight  upon  "  going  to 
see  the  soldiers  go."  And  in  the  road  were  drawn  up 
the  husbands  and  sons  and  fathers  known  to  the  com- 
munity as  "  Sal  Jones's  husband,"  or  "  Brown's  Jim,"  or 
"the  Culbert  crowd,"  or  "  Wilkins's  eldest,"  or  "Potter's 
third,"  or  "  old  man  Sneed," — an  aggregate  summed  up 
effectively,  if  inhumanly,  by  accomplished  political 
writers  as  "  food  for  powder."  And  about  these,  again, 
were  grouped  the  elder  home-staying  men  of  failing 
strength,  scant  breath,  and  small  faith  in  the  success 
of  anything  here  below. 

The  scouts  had  been  recruited  impartially  from  the 
war  and  peace  parties  of  a  few  weeks  before,  for  when 
it  came  to  the  point  of  enlistment  it  was  found  that 
several  of  the  most  blatant  and  bloodthirsty  of  the 
former  were  obliged  by  a  cruel  necessity  to  crush  all 
their  military  ardor,  and  discovered  daily  some  fresh 
and  insuperable  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  particular 
form  of  patriotism  currently  spoken  of  as  "  'listing  for 
the  fight,"  whereas,  on  the  other  hand,  a  number  of 
men  who  had  been  opposed  to  war  in  general,  and  this 
war  in  particular,  no  sooner  found  it  inevitable  than 


64  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

they  felt  impelled,  as  they  put  it,  to  '"take  a  hand  and 
see  this  thing  through." 

It  was  a  representative  body  enough  then  gathered 
there,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  in  variety  of  cos- 
tume and  eccentricity  of  accoutrement  it  was  a  remark- 
able one ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  it  is  doubtful  whether 
Alcibiades  w^ould  have  cared  to  put  himself  at  their 
head,  as  John  Shore  did  when  the  last  lingering  fare- 
wells had  been  taken,  and  quite  certain  that  many  a 
European  martinet  would  have  disputed  their  claim  to 
be  considered  soldiers  at  all.  But  brave  hearts  were 
beating  under  those  "  butternut"  coats.  Gold  lace  and 
broadcloth,  pipe-clay  and  blacking,  do  not  the  hero  make, 
and  before  the  war  was  over.  Mars  himself  would  not 
have  been  ashamed  to  own  the  little  cavalcade  that  now 
set  off  of  men  mounted  for  the  most  part  on  the  sorry 
Eosinantes  of  the  farm,  with  frying  pans  tied  to  their 
saddle-bows,  calico  "comforts"  strapped  behind  them 
with  odd  bits  of  rope,  and  arms  that  were  only  equalled 
by  the  gun  Eip  Yan  "Winkle  carried  on  his  famous  ex- 
pedition, or  that  other  "queen's  arm  that  Grau'ther 
Young  fetched  back  from  Concord  busted." 

The  children  who  had  swarmed  up  the  clumsy 
wooden  stirrups  rode  with  them  as  far  as  the  end  of 
the  Ked  Lane, — John  Shore  had  no  less  than  three  for 
his  portion, — a  girl  in  front  and  two  boys  behind, — and 
Bub  Williams  carried  his  baby  daughter  that  far  in  his 
arms,  the  women  trooping  along  on  foot  in  the  rear. 
The  procession  halted  there;  the  children  were  em- 
braced and  set  down.     Then  were  more  last  words. 

"Be  sure  and  write  if  yer  get  killed  sure  enough, 
John,"  called  out  Jinny. 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  65 

"  You'd  better  get  off,  and  alight  from,  and  leave  that 
there  horse  of  yours,"  cried  Brother  White  to  Tim. 
"  Yes,  all  of  you,  the  whole  of  you.  You'll  wish  you 
had.  Wait  till  the  time  for  the  fulfilment  of  purposes 
comes,  that's  all,  and  then  remember  that  I  said  so." 

"  Go  'long,  if  you're  going,"  shouted  old  Williams, 
gruffly,  with  a  lump  in  his  throat.  "  Bub,  you're  all  the 
son  I've  got ;  be  keerful ;  but  don't  you  sneak  out  of 
nothin',  neither,  d'ye  hear?" 

"  Oh,  Bub !  Bub !  goo-oo-ood-bye,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams, junior,  who  could  have  better  spared  a  better 
husband.  A  loud  wail  went  up  from"  all  the  women 
except  one  brave  wife,  who  called  out,  "  Yer'll  all  be 
back  home  by  the  time  the  Lady  is." 

"  Come  on !"  cried  John  Shore,  and  they  were  off — 
the  Mountain  and  the  United  States  had  gone  to  war. 

If  no  rain  fell  that  day  on  the  Mountain,  there  were 
tears  enough  shed  to  make  up  for  it.  By  the  time 
"the  Lady  returned  back,"  a  third  of  the  scouts,  it  was 
known,  would  never  again  see  the  hills  and  homes 
they  had  so  recently  left,  and  at  the  end  of  four  years 
fifteen  tattered,  bronzed,  indomitable  veterans  came 
straggling  in,  one  by  one,  into  the  Red  Lane,  so  slow  of 
gait  and  sore  at  heart  that  they  would  have  cried  out 
in  biblical  speech  for  the  mountains  to  fall  upon  them 
and  the  hills  to  cover  them  if  they  could  have  expressed 
defeat  and  despair  at  all  adequately.  The  war  was 
over,  and  the  Mountain  had  got  the  worst  of  it, 

John  Shore  was  one  of  them,  and  the  fact  had  not 

the   effect  of   endearing   him  to  the  community.      In 

many  minds  it  militated  against  him  distinctly.     Who 

had    first    brought    this   war    to   the    Mountain    and 

e  6* 


66  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

preached  a  crusade  in  favor  of  it  but  John  Shore? 
Many  women  argued  that  there  never  would  have  been 
a  war  but  for  him,  and  arraigned  him  as  the  originator 
and  promoter  of  the  disastrous  scheme  that  had  brought 
them  such  misery.  That  he  should  have  come  out  of 
it  safe  and  sound  when  "better  men"  had  perished  was 
a  source  of  irritation  to  them.  But  his  own  estimate 
of  his  good  fortune  was  not  a  high  one.  "  I'd  liever 
have  died  than  to  have  lived  to  see  this  day,"  he  often 
said,  with  perfect  sincerity,  in  the  first  dark  days  that 
followed  the  surrender ;  and  meeting  Mrs.  Williams, 
whose  husband  had  been  killed  in  his  first  engagement, 
he  had  quailed  almost  guiltily  before  her,  and  had 
protested  humbly :  "  I  wish  it  had  of  been  me,  Nelly, 
instead  of  him,  and  that's  the  truth.  There  don't  seem 
to  be  no  place,  leastwaj^s  no  rightmost  place,  fur  me  in 
this  world  that  I  can  see,  noway,  and  there  wouldn't 
er  been  nobody  to  cry  fur  me."  This  sad  little  speech 
ought  to  have  mollified  Mrs.  Williams,  who  had 
promptly  canonized  "  Bub"  as  the  saintliest  of  spouses 
and  looked  upon  herself  as  a  martyr,  but  it  did  not. 
She  maintained  then  and  ever  after  that  John  Shore 
had  "murdered"  her  own  dear,  model  husband,  and 
this  coming  to  his  ears  he  was  not  a  little  wounded. 

There  were  a  good  many  things  to  depress  John 
Shore  at  home  and  abroad  now.  One  was  that  he  had 
come  back  to  find  Alfred  married  to,  or,  rather,  married 
by,  a  shrewish  widow, — a  Mrs.  Stubbs  nee  "  Tildy"  New- 
man,— an  elderly  ugly  woman  with  an  uglier  temper, 
and  what  was  more,  because  incurable,  a  mean  soul. 
"  Tildy"  Newman  had  always  been  known  as  "  a 
Screamer,"  and  was  often  alluded  to  as  "  a  Captain." 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  67 

The  Mountain  had  never  heard  of  Woman's  Rights,  but 
it  had  not  lacked  for  strong-minded  and  self-willed 
females  who  held  scornful  views  of  men  in  general,  and 
refused  to  follow  or  be  led  by  them  in  any  single  par- 
ticular, and  such  were  called  "  Captains." 

It  was  by  the  sheerest  exercise  of  will-power  that 
the  Widow  Stubbs  had  first  proposed,  and  then  elected, 
and  then  installed  herself  as  Alfred's  master  and  the 
mistress  of  the  cottage,  and  never  was  any  man 
more  systematically  overrun  and  completely  subju- 
gated than  her  quasi  lord  and  spouse.  He  may  have 
liked  it,  and  certainly  did  not  attempt  to  resent  or 
change  their  relative  positions.  The  very  thought  of 
"standing  out  agin  Matild}^"  appalled  him  and  threw 
him  into  greatest  possible  confusion  and  distress  of 
mind,  so  he  fell  back  upon  his  reserves  of  constitutional 
vacuity  and  phlegm  (finding  the  war  from  which  he 
had  shrunk  for  four  years  his  portion  for  life),  and  cul- 
tivated the  art  of  being  inoffensive  and  of  diverting 
the  enemy's  fire,  until  he  got  it  down  to  a  remarkably 
fine  point  for  a  dull  man.  And  he  solaced  himself  as 
he  could,  chiefly  with  tobacco  and  maple-sugar,  keeping 
a  supply  of  the  latter  constantly  on  hand,  broken  up 
into  bits,  that  he  might  be  ready  for  any  emergency  and 
take  one  every  half-hour  until  relieved. 

If  Mrs.  Alfred  Shore  was  acutely  disagreeable  to  her 
father-in-law  at  this  period,  though,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  it  was  because  she  was  insufferable,  and  not  because 
she  tried  to  be.  She  had  never  made  such  efforts  to  be 
the  woman  she  ought  to  have  been, — to  ingratiate  her- 
self with  anybody  as  she  did  with  him, — and  this  for  a 
good  and  sufficient  reason.     The  cottage  and  farm  were 


68  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

his.  Yet  the  more  she  laid  herself  out  to  please  him, 
the  less  she  succeeded  in  doing  so.  The  veneer  which 
calculation  and  interest  lay  over  a  character  has  the 
bad  fault  of  peeling  off  and  constantly  showing  the  real 
grain  of  the  wood  beneath  ;  and  he  knew  her  better 
than  she  thought,  and  liked  her  less  every  day, — a  fact 
of  which  she  was  perfectly  aware,  though  she  did  not 
seem  to  be.  But  it  was  not  alone  because  the  house 
was  not  the  home  that  he  remembered  that  John  Shore 
began  after  a  few  months  to  get,  as  he  said  himself,  "as 
restless  as  a  panther."  The  dull,  eventless  life  he  was 
leading  seemed  more  unendurable  to  him  than  when 
he  was  a  young  man,  even  after  the  excitements  and 
fluctuating  fortunes  of  the  past  four  years,  and  with 
his  enlarged  views  and  experience  of  the  world  he  was 
less  tolerant  than  ever  of  the  intense  conservatism, 
narrow  ideas,  and  invincible  prejudices  of  the  Mountain. 
It  must  be  confessed,  too,  that  the  prospect  of  set- 
tling down  to  regular,  hard,  and  uncongenial  work 
was  particularly  disagreeable  to  him,  for  it  was  always 
urged  against  him,  with  perfect  truth,  that  he  was 
a  lazy  man.  More  than  one  fault  of  temperament 
had  developed  and  crystallized  into  fixed  habit  in  the 
long  years  in  which  he  had  roved  here  and  there  after 
the  death  of  the  wife  he  had  so  tenderly  loved.  The 
force  of  circumstances  with  him,  as  with  us  all,  counted 
for  much, — that  mighty  force  pressing  every  moment 
and  hour  and  day  of  our  lives  upon  precisely  the  points 
in  our  natures  which  are  weakest,  with  a  mightier 
power  behind  it  which  only  bides  its  time  to  seize  and 
sweep  one  or  other  of  us  out  bej'ond  the  reach  of  human 
help  and  sympathy.     The  acute  misery  and  its  subse- 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  69 

quent  stupor  had  passed  away ;  the  lack  of  purpose,  the 
paralysis  of  will  and  energy,  had  remained.  The  war 
had  healthfully  stimulated  him  in  many  ways,  and 
while  it  lasted  he  had  been  more  like  the  John  Shore 
of  old  than  he  had  ever  thought  he  could  be. 

The  incident  and  variety  of  the  life,  its  gayety  and 
good-fellowship,  even  its  hardships  and  trials,  had  done 
much  to  restore  his  mental  balance  and  natural  cheer- 
fulness. And  his  talents  as  a  raconteur  and  musician, 
and  a  certain  peculiar  vein  of  humor,  added  to  his  cour- 
age and  generosity,  had  made  him  a  favorite  among  his 
fellows,  which  corrected  the  morbid  sense  of  failure  and 
loneliness  he  had  suffered  from.  But  it  had  been  a  reck- 
less and  unsettling  career  on  the  whole,  and  now  that 
it  was  all  over,  the  old  despondency  settled  down  upon 
him  more  darkly  than  ever.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
one  evening  when  supper  was  over  at  the  Shores'  and 
Matilda  had  left  the  room,  John  Shore  said  to  his  son, 
"  Al,  I  can't  stay  here  no  longer.  I've  sorter  got  the 
tramps,  I  reckon,  and  there  ain't  more  than  work 
enough  for  one  man  here  noway.  I'm  goin'  out  West, 
and  I  don't  reckon  I'll  ever  come  back  agin,  dead  or 
alive." 

"  Peter  Eobinson !"  ejaculated  Alfred.  "  Yer  don't  say 
so !"  and  fell  to  staring. 

"  Yes,"  went  on  the  father,  "  that's  my  idee,  and  so  I 
have  went  to  town  and  fixed  things  'bout  this  here 
place.  It's  all  yours,  my  son,  and  here's  your  showin'." 
Here  he  laid  the  deed  he  had  taken  from  his  pocket 
down  on  the  table,  and  repeated,  "  Yes,  it's  all  yours, 
and  I  think  you  kin  make  a  good  livin'  off  it,  and  I 
hope  you'll  prosper  right  along." 


70  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  But  what's  to  become  er  you  f "  inquired  Alfred,  still 
staring. 

*'  Oh,  I  kin  scratch  along  somehow,"  his  father  replied. 
"Never  mind  'bout  me,  so's  you  are  all  right.  And  Al, 
I've  got  one  thing  to  ask  er  you  and  I  hope  you'll  do  it. 
Don't  let  the  hogs  and  cows  go  trampin'  round  on  your 
mother's  grave.  I've  done  fixed  it  up  good  now,  and 
the  idee  of  the  fence  falli-n'  down,  maybe,  sometime, 
and  her  bein'  run  over  by  stock  hurts  me  powerful,  so 
promise  me  you'll  see  that's  kep'  right.  You  will  now, 
won't  yer?" 

"  I  will,  Pa-ap,"  said  Alfred.  "  But  hadn't  you  better 
consider  on  it  a  while  and  see  what  this  here  projicking 
is  goin'  to  come  to  ?  Hadn't  you  better  stay  here  with 
me  and  Tildy  ?" 

The  conjunction  of  names  in  this  appeal  was  unfor- 
tunate. 

"  No ;  my  mind's  made  plum  up.  I'm  goin'  to- 
morrow," said  the  father,  fixing  at  once  the  time  for 
his  departure.  "  But,  Al,  I  won't  do  like  I  did  befo'. 
I'll  write  you  regular,  though  I  ain't  no  scholard,  and 
you  must  write  to  me." 

In  this  easy  way  did  John  Shore  deprive  himself  of 
everything  that  he  had  in  the  world,  and  with  no  other 
companion  than  the  violin  with  which  he  had  beguiled 
the  weariness  and  sadness  of  his  comrades  around  a 
thousand  camp-fires,  prepare  to  turn  his  back  a  second 
time  on  the  Mountain. 

"He  only  come  home  to  tempt  away  my  husband," 
said  that  most  illogical  of  mourners,  Mrs.  "Williams, 
"  and  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  him." 

"  Cracky !  what  a  fool !"  commented  Mi*s.  Alfred  Shore, 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  71 

contemptuously,  when  her  husband  explained  the  situ- 
ation and  gave  her  the  "showin'."  "I  kain't  believe 
it." 

"You  ain't  oughter  to  talk  like  that,"  he  remon- 
strated, mildly.     "  Yer  ain't  oughter,  Tildy." 

"  Oh,  kiss  the  cat !"  his  wife  scornfully  replied.  "  He 
is  a  fool.  A  most  tremenjus,  nateral-born  fool.  But 
that's  all  right.     You  give  me  that  there  paper." 

"  So  Johnny  Shore's  done  willed  off  all  he's  got,  they 
tell  me,  and  is  goin'  trapesin'  off  agin  beyant  the  Eidge," 
said  one  of  the  elders  to  Jake  White  when  he  heard  the 
news.     (It  was  always  "  Johnny"  Shore  after  this.) 

"  I've  heerd  that  it's  yea  and  verily,"  he  replied,  with 
unctuous  satisfaction.  "And  who  wondereth  and  is 
astonished?  He  always  was  a  no-'count,  curous  crea- 
ture, and  a  mover,  and  a  traveller,  and  not  an  abider, 
and  a  tiller,  and  a  toiler  gathering  into  barns.  And 
what  I've  said,  and  told  you,  and  remarked  upon,  and 
showed  forth  has  come  true  agin  and  agin  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  purposes,  and  is  not  to  be  gainsaid  nor  denied 
by  them  that  shoot  out  the  lip,  and  them  that  run  about 
and  grin  like  dogs,  and  would  go  to  the  war  in  spite  of 
being  held  back  by  the  graybeard  and  the  wise  ones  in 
the  council,  which  was  inspired,  and  instructed,  and 
filled  to  overflowing.  And  observe.  They  had  destruc- 
tion wrought  upon  them  and  was  confused,  and  con- 
founded, and  overthrown,  and  swallowed  up!  And 
again.  He  always  was  a  poor,  foolish  luniac  of  a  dis- 
puter,  and  perverter,  and  leader  astray,  and  he  goeth  to 
his  own  and  will  never  be  missed  here,  nor  there,  nor 
hither,  nor  no-whither." 

"  It's  a  bad  plan,  my  father  usened  to  say,  to  take 


72  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

off  your  clothes  till  you're  gittin'  into  bed;  and  as  fur 

me "  began  the  elder.     But  he  was  interrupted. 

"  You  don't  understand  this  here  case,  nor  see  it,  nor 
comprehend  it.  It  ain't  a  thing  of  clothes  nor  clothing, 
nor  beds  nor  bedding,  nor  of  couches,  nor  of  sofys,  nor 
of  tables,  nor  of  chairs,"  said  Mr.  White,  turning  his 
whole  long,  lank  person  towards  his  companion  in  his 
earnestness,  and  punctuating  his  remarks  by  tapping 
the  palm  of  his  left  hand  briskly  with  the  fingers  of 
the  right.  "  It's  a  question  of  comin'  to  the  footstool. 
It's  Vital  Religion.  He  ain't  never  sought  fur  it,  nor 
he  ain't  never  got  it,  nor  he  ain't  never  goin'  to  git 
it,  and  it's  because  he  ain't  got  no  single  scrap,  nor 
mite,  nor  grain,  nor  speck  of  real,  true,  workin',  foamin', 
fermentin',  tearin',  upheavin'  piety  in  him !  He  ain't 
got,  and  very  few  has  got,  any  idee  what  a  commo- 
tionary,  convulsivary,  agitatuating  religion  that  there 
Vital  Ecligion  is.  Why,  I  ain't  never  got  it  yit,  and 
I've  tried  the  hardest,  and  laid  as  close  to  it  as  I  am 
to  you.  It  takes  a  power  of  work,  and  patience,  and 
time.  I  don't  know  as  Methusalem  could  uv  done  it  ef 
he'd  uv  been  a  Seeker.  I've  got  the  searchin's  on  me 
this  minute  pretty  nigh  as  bad  as  ever,  and  me  at  three- 
score and  ten  I  But  this  I  know,  and  all  knoweth  it, 
moreover.  Vital  Ecligion  is  the  only  religion.  It  can 
take  you,  or  me,  or  even  Johnny  Shore,  like  we  was  an 
onion,  and  strip  the  devil  off,  and  then  pull  the  sinner 
off,  and  then  shuck  off  the  man,  and  then  shake  his 
miserable  soul  till  the  angel  that's  in  him  drops  out 
naked  before  his  eyes  clean,  and  white,  and  shinin'  I 
Yes,  yes,  Brother  Williams.  It's  a  wonderful,  and  an 
amazin',  and  a  marvellous  thing  to  them  that  knows  it 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  73 

at  all,  or  has  had  any  sort,  or  kind,  or  description  of 
dealin's  with  it,  is  the  genuine  Yital  Eeligionl  And 
again.  The  trouble  with  this  here  Johnny  is,  and  was, 
and  always  has  been,  that  he  ain't  never  chmbed  up  like 
Zaccheus  to  see  what  sort  of  a  religion  he  was  standin' 
in  down  below  here.  He  ain't  never  been  a  Seeker  nor 
a  Searcher.  He  took  the  first  religion  that  come  along, 
and  it  was  a  cheap  religion,  and  cheap  religions  ain't 
goin'  to  last  nor  to  endure.  And  now  he's  a  heathen 
and  a  Saducer." 

"  Well,  I  don't  give  in  to  that  nor  no  talk  like  it," 
said  Jim  Wilkins,  who  was  sitting  by.  "He  was  as 
good  a  soldier  as  ever  shouldered  a  musket ;  true  grit 
all  through.  And  but  fur  him,  I  wouldn't  be  a-settin' 
here,  for  he  was  the  one  that  went  out  at  Sharpsburg 
under  cross-fire  and  brought  me  back  into  our  lines 
when  I  was  left  out  there  wounded,  and  him  no  great 
friend  of  mine,  neither.  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  forget 
that.  I  sez  to  him  yesterday,  'John,  what  are  you 
striking  tent  for  now,  after  marchin'  all  over  creation 
for  four  years  ?  Ain't  you  had  enough  of  it  ?  I 
wouldn't  go  straggling  off  ef  I  was  you.'  And  he  sez 
to  me,  '  Jim,  don't  say  nothin'  more  'bout  it.  I'm  bound 
to  go.'  I  reckon  he  don't  like  his  company  and  his  cap- 
tain, and  that's  the  reason  he's  goin'  to  desert.  She'll 
rule  or  bust"  (jerking  his  pipe  towards  "  Shores')."  "  I 
couldn't  stand  a  Captain  myself  My  old  woman's  got 
a  temper,  but  she  ain't  a  Captain.  There  ain't  no  better 
woman  than  Mandy,  and  I  understand  her.  It  takes  an 
old  soldier  to  be  up  to  'em.  The  other  night,  now,  when 
that  big  storm  come  on,  Mandy  was  skeered  to  death, 
and  every  bit  of  the  stiffenin'  went  right  out  of  her, 
D  7 


74  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

and  she  got  on  the  feather-bed  and  screeched  like  a 
wild-cat  for  me  and  the  children  to  come  on  it  too.  I 
was  standin'  at  the  door;  I  warn't  skeered, — I'd  bin 
under  fire  before ;  but  I  seed  she  was,  and  I  thought  to 
myself,  '  I'll  divert  the  enemy  by  a  flank  movement.' 
So  I  steps  up  to  her  and  sez,  '  Mandy,  you're  behavin' 
like  a  igit.  Shet  right  up  now !  shet  up,  or  I'll  whop 
yer!'  Yer  ought  ter  seen  her!  Moses!  but  she  was 
mad!  She  upped  and  .slapped  my  face  fur  me,  and 
called  me  everything  under  the  sun !  But  she  forgot 
all  'bout  the  thunder  and  lightnin',  and  when  it  was 
over  she  asked  me  to  forgive  her,  and  was  as  soft  as 
butter  in  July  fur  a  week.  And  I  tell  you  I  had  a  good 
supper  ^  That's  tactics.  You  can't  get  on  with  no 
woman  long  without  tactics  any  more'n  you  can  move 
a  whole  army  round  without  'em.  She's  infantry,  and 
cavalry,  and  artillery,  and  baggage-wagons,  I  tell  you. 
And  as  long  as  the}^  are  only  that,  I  don't  mind ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  a  cornstant  guerilla  and  low  bush- 
whacker like  Al  Shore's  wife,  there  ain't  nothin'  fur  it 
bift  to  desert  yourself  or  to  kill  her,  and  you  can't  kill 
nobody  now  the  war's  over.  It's  ridiculous  the  people 
that's  let  to  live  and  go  round  loose  pisonin'  places, 
and  bullets  and  powder  as  plenty  as  blackberries." 

It  was  Jim  Wilkins  who  slipped  a  plug  of  tobacco 
into  his  old  comrade's  pocket  when  the  morning  of  his 
departure  came,  saying,  "  Good-by  !  Take  care  uv  3'our- 
self,  you  old  Johnny  Eeb,  you,"  and  tried  to  hang  a 
spruce  canteen  around  his  neck. 

"  Mandy's  mother,  who's  got  the  cheek  uv  a  gover- 
mint  mule,  confiscated  this  long  ago,"  he  explained, 
"  and  when  I  know'd  you  wuz  goin',  it  'peared  to  me 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  75 

like  you'd  be  certain  to  want  a  canteen,  no  matter  whur 
you  went  to  ;  and  I  knowed  that  Mandy's  mother 
warn't  one  to  give  up  nothin'  she'd  ever  laid  her  hands 
on,  and  was  keepin'  tomato  catsup  in  this ;  and  so  I  sez 
to  her,  '  Give  me  that  canteen,  and  I'll  have  it  cov- 
ered agin  with  leather,  and  it'll  be  splendid  to  put  hot 
water  in  and  put  up  next  agin  your  side  when  you 
get  that  bad  pain  you're  subject  to,'  and  I  got  it  away. 
That's  tactics,  John.  And  I've  done  had  it  fixed  up  fur 
you,  and  I  hope  you'll  take  it.  It's  the  one  I  carried  all 
endurin'  the  war." 

The  parting  had  taken  place  between  John  and  his 
family,  and  it  had  not  been  an  emotional  one, — Tildy 
being  coolly  civil,  feeling  that  she  was  getting  rid  of 
him  forever,  and  Alfred  woodenly  undemonstrative,  as 
usual ;  so  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  was  touched  by  his 
comrade's  kindness,  and  that  his  eyes  were  very  moist 
as  he  said,  "  Thank  you,  Jim.  I'm  'bleeged  to  you ;  but 
I  don't  need  it,  and  ain't  likely  to.  I've  got  ray  knap- 
sack and  my  fiddle,  you  see.  But  I'm  mightily  'bleeged 
to  you.  You  are  'bout  the  only  one  here  that's  sorry 
to  see  the  last  of  me,  I  reckon.  I  ain't  complainin',  but 
that's  so." 

"  Wher'll  you  be  to-night  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Wilkins. 

"I  dunno  ;  but  I'll  do  very  well.  Many's  the  night 
you  and  me  have  slep'  in  fence-corners  and  mud-puddles, 
and  under  baggage-wagons  when  we  wuz  lucky.  Ain't 
it  now,  Jim  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  but  that  fiddle  uv  yourn.  How  it  does 
remind  me  of  them  old  times  and  all  the  boys  and 
everything!  You  couldn't  play  me  'Zip  Coon'  once 
more  agin,  now,  could  you,  John?" 


76  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"No,  Jim;  I  ain't  got  the  time,  and  I  ain't  got  tho 
heart,  to  tell  the  truth.     Good-by,  Jim!" 

"Good-by,  John  !'  Jim  Wilkins  walked  away  slowly 
and  thoughtfully  a  little  distance,  and  then  came  back. 
"John,"  said  he,  "I  ain't  never  thanked  you  for  savin' 
my  life,  but!  feel  it^ere,"  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
"John,  I've  got  a  nice  tin-cup " 

"I  couldn't  er  done  no  different,  Jim.  Never  mind 
'bout  that.     Good-by,  Jim.     Good-by!" 

Jim  Wilkins  walked  off  again  slowly,  and  again 
turned  back.  "John,"  said  he,  pulling  out  a  large, 
dingy,  battered  old  silver  watch,  "it  ain't  fit  to  give 
you :  it  don't  keep  time,  and  it  ain't  got  no  hands,  and 
the  works  is  rusted  bad;  but  it's  a  watch,  and  maybe 
you  could  git  it  fixed  up  some  time."  He  held  it  up  as 
he  spoke,  and  it  looked  like  a  third-century  moon  in 
very  reduced  circumstances,  while  his  own  face  was  red 
and  eager.  "  It  was  give  to  me  by  a  Yank  that  I  cap- 
tured once  and  let  go  free — just  shut  my  eyes,  you 
know — 'cause  he  hadn't  long  to  live  noway,  and  I 
couldn't  get  my  consent  to  'lowin*  him  to  die  in  prison. 
I  never  thought  I'd  give  it  away;  but  I'd  like  you  to 
have  it,  and  it's  been  a  splendid  watch.  He  give  ten 
dollars  for  it,  he  told  me.  Maybe  ef  the  foraging  ain't 
good  whur  you're  goin'  to,  you  might  find  it  handy. 
Don't  you  remember,  John,  the  night  me  and  you  got 
into  that  store  in  Frederick  and  got  all  them  hams  to- 
gether, and  wuz  goin'  fur  the  sardines  and  preserves, 
when  the  enemy  come  down  on  us  and  run  us  out  with- 
out a  single  derned  thing?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Oh,  them 
was  lively  times,  them  was!  Here,  John,  take  it — 
take  it." 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  77 

"No,  no,  Jim;  keep  your  watch.  I  don't  want  it. 
Put  it  up.     Good-by,  Jim  !     Take  care  of  yourself." 

Again  Jim  Wilkins  started  oif  and  got  about  a  hun- 
dred yards,  when  he  again  returned,  running  this  time, 
all  his  thoughts  and  heart  full  of  "the  brave  days  of 
old"  and  the  friend  who  had  shared  them. 

"  Here,  John.  Here,  take  this.  You  shall,  damn  you! 
Good-by  I"  he  called  out,  hastily  thrusting  into  his  com- 
rade's hand  something  like  a  bill,  if  an  angry  yellow 
envelope  could  be  trusted,  and  this  time,  without  wait- 
ing for  an  answer,  he  went  off  in  earnest.  On  being 
opened  it  disclosed  Mr.  TVilkins's  most  precious  posses- 
sion,— which  he  always  carried  about  with  him, — a  war 
photograph  of  a  murderous-looking  man  in  a  plain  uni- 
form, with  no  insignia  of  rank. 

John  Shore  knew  it  well,  and  recognized  it  at  once. 
"Why,  ef  that  there  coon  ain't  give  me  old  Blue  Light !" 
he  exclaimed,  and  felt  overpowered,  for  he  had  seen 
that  picture  before,  and  knew  its  history,  and  how  Jim 
Wilkins  valued  it.  He  had  heard  how  he  came  by  it  a 
hundred  times,  at  least,  and  now  he  had  given  it  away. 
"  Jim !  Jim !  you  hadn't  never  ought  to  have  done 
that,"  he  said,  turning  to  remonstrate  with  his  friend. 
"  Stop !  Hold  on  !"  But  Mr.  Wilkins  had  cut  across  a 
field,  and  was  not  to  be  stopped.  On  realizing  this, 
John  Shore  felt  very  blank  for  a  while.  Then  he  sud- 
denly gave  vent  to  a  loud,  peculiar  cry,  which  was  an- 
swered cheerfully  from  the  crest  of  the  hill,  after  which 
he  felt  better  satisfied.  Jim  understood  all  that  he 
had  meant  to  convey  by  that  "rebel  yell,"  he  knew. 
"  Old  Blue  Light !"  thought  he,  examining  the  picture 
critically  again  before   returning   it   to  the  envelope. 

7*     . 


78  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  Give  to  Jim  by  him  when  he  was  his  orderly.  Well, 
I  never  dreamed  Jim  cared  that  much  for  an^^body.  It 
don't  seem  right  to  keep  a  thing  like  that,"  and  so 
thinking,  placed  it  securely  in  his  pocket. 

This  interview  had  taken  place  in  the  Eed  Lane  ;  and 
it  was  not  the  only  farewell  in  store  for  John  Shore,  for, 
as  he  walked  along  meditatively,  he  suddenly  felt  his 
progress  arrested  by  a  soft  something  clinging  about 
his  leg,  which,  on  looking  around,  he  perceived  to  be  a 
little  girl. 

"Why,  hello!  R  Mintah.  Is  that  you?  What  are 
you  'bout?"  said  he,  and  picked  the  child  up  in  his 
arms.  John  Shore  was  the  friend  of  every  child  on  the 
Mountain,  but  he  was  in  an  especial  sense  the  friend  of 
this  young  person  for  the  reason  that  it  was  generally 
said  of  her  that  she  "  had  no  friends." 

The  Mountain  had  not  come  to  "  E.  Mintah ;"  perhaps 
because  she  was  not  a  prophet,  which  was  curious,  seeing 
that  she  came  of  a  sex  which  foresees  everything  and 
is  nearly  always  able  to  say  "  I  told  you  so."  However, 
it  was  "  E.  Mintah"  who  had  come  to  the  Mountain. 
She  had  been  found  sitting  in  the  Eed  Lane  one  morning, 
a  round-eyed  innocent,  quite  absorbed  in  a  lapful  of 
daisies, — the  last  wavelet  of  a  receding  tide  of  Federal 
troops, — a  little  pearl  cast  up  by  the  storm ;  in  prose,  a 
child  wickedly  abandoned  by  its  mother, — a  camp  fol- 
lower,— grown  weary  of  its  accusing  innocence  and  utter 
helplessness.  There  she  was  presently  found  by  Mrs. 
Newman,  who  lived  opposite, — a  slovenly,  large-feat- 
ured, large-hearted  woman,  who  in  breadth  of  beam 
and  mild  wholesomcness,  in  bovine  tranquillity,  and  in 
the    abundance    and    richness    of  the   milk  of  human 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  79 

kindness  in  her,  was  irresistibly  suggestive  of  one  of 
her  own  short-horn  cows. 

And  there  and  then  she  was  clasped  to  the  motherly 
bosom  of  a  woman  who,  having  nothing,  was  perfectly 
willing  to  divide  it,  and,  possessing  already  a  numerous 
progeny  of  her  own,  whom,  with  all  her  exertions,  she 
could  not  keep  other  than  ill  fed  and  scantily  clothed, 
did  not  hesitate  for  one  moment  to  graft  this  stray  bud 
of  humanity  on  her  family  tree  and  give  it  an  equal 
share  of  what  they  all  lacked  in  common,  and  of  the 
love  and  care  that  all  alike  possessed  richly.  "  Her  bite 
and  sup  '11  never  count,  father,"  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band. "  It  might  er  been  one  uv  ourn  lef '  to  perish." 
With  this  she  got  down  a  small  black  Bible  which  had 
been  left  there  by  a  colporteur  years  before  (she  kept 
it  on  a  shelf  above  her  bed,  sewed  up  in  an  old  hand- 
kerchief), and  not  being  able  to  read,  had  no  idea 
that  she  was  fulfilling  at  least  one  of  its  precepts, 
when  she  added,  "  She's  goin'  to  be  one  uv  ourn  from 
this  minit."  Not  knowing  how  to  write,  she  took  the 
volume  over  to  one  of  her  neighbors,  who  was  "a 
scholard,"  and  had  the  little  waif  regularly  enrolled 
and  incorporated  as  a  member  of  her  family  under  the 
name,  style,  and  title  of  "  E.  Mintah  (Araminta)  New- 
man," to  the  infinite  disgust  of  her  eldest  daughter, 
Mrs.  Alfred  Shore. 

This  being  E.  Mintah's  history,  John  Shore  had  felt 
himself  more  than  usually  drawn  to  her,  and  now  he 
carried  her  along  the  lane  in  his  arms,  talking  to  her 
as  he  went,  until,  hearing  his  own  name  called,  he 
halted,  and  looking  around  and  about  and  finally  up,  he 
saw  that  he  had  been  accosted  by  Jinny  Hodges, — Jinny, 


80  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDQE. 

who  had  been  promptly  turned  out  of  the  cottage  long 
^go  t>y  Alfred's  wife,  and  had  gone  to  live  with  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Lem  Hodges, — Jinny,  who  had  climbed  up 
into  an  apple-tree  with  the  intention  of  commanding  a 
view  of  that  lane  down  which  John  must  pass. 

There  was  a  trace  of  her  old  coquettishness  in  the 
way  she  called  out  ''John,  John,  where  are  you  goin'? 
Ain't  you  got  no  eyes?"  and  it  sat  strangely  on  her  thin 
face,  wrinkling  perpetually  into  wide  smiles.  John  did 
not  notice  it  any  more  than  the  fact  that  she  wore  her 
pink  calico,  and  had  on  a  collar  of  crochet-lace  and  a 
breastpin,  the  signs  and  tokens  of  a  great  occasion. 
She  made  a  feint  of  gathering  apples  for  a  moment,  and 
John  said,  "  I  went  over  to  see  yer  yesterday.  Jinny, 
but  you  warn't  there,  and  now  I'm  off." 

"  Yes,  I  heerd  you  was  goin',"  she  replied,  looking 
down  at  him,  "  and  I'm  sorry  you've  got  that  maggot 
in  yer  mind,  John.  Lor' I  nothin'  ain't  what  it  was. 
I  usened  to  be  mighty  happy  at  the  cottage  with  Al, — 
that  was  when  you  was  dead,  John, — and  ef  yer  hadn't 
uv  gone  to  no  war,  and  had  uv — well,  anyways,  why 
can't  yer  stay  along  here  whur  you've  been  raised, 
even  ef  yer've  got  to  live  'round  like  me,  'cause  that 
wildcat  Al's  married  stuck  her  claws  inter  yer  and 
goes  on  gougin'  ?  You'd  get  used  to  it,  or  perhaps  yer 
might  make  another  home  uv  yer  own,  and  live  in  it ; 
alone,  in  course,  John,  and " 

"  No,  Jinny,"  said  he,  interrupting  her.  "I  can't  get 
my  consent  to  that,  and  I'm  goin'.  That's  settled.  But 
I'd  wish  to  see  you  better  fixed ;  and  I  wouldn't  have 
'lowed  3'ou  to  leave  Al's  house, — it's  his  house  now,  but 
it  was  mine  then, — only  Al  thought  you  two  women 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  81 

couldn't  never  git  on.     But  you  know  all  about  that. 
And  now  I  must  be  gittin'  on." 

On  hearing  this,  Jinny  gathered  her  clothes  about  her 
feet,  and,  slipping  down  to  the  ground,  came  to  close 
quarters. 

"John,"  said  she,  "  are  you  goin'  ?  Sho  'nough  ?  Yer 
— yer  couldn't  take  me  with  yer,  John,  could  yer  ?  If 
you  could,  John,  I — we — shucks,  John !  You  know !  1 
could  work  'round,  and  not  cost  you  nothin'.  I'm  a 
powerful  hand  at  washin',  and  can  cook  better'n  most, 
and  could  keep  mj^self  And  if  you  was  to  get  sick  and 
die  agin,  John,  it  would  be  mighty  bad  to  be  all  alone 
off  there,  and  I  could  lay  you  out  just  splendid,  John ! 
I've  got  the  pattern  of  them  pants  you've  got  on  this 
minnit,  and  there  ain't  no  shirt  or  coat  that  I  can't 
make.  I'd  bury  you  sho  'nough,  and  no  come  back,  I 
can  tell  you."  But  even  this  supreme  inducement  had 
no  effect  upon  John  Shore,  except  to  make  him  say 
hastily  and  rather  harshly,  "  Hesh,  Jinny,  hesh!  Don't 
say  no  more.  It's  onpossible  every  way  ;  onpossible,  and 
you  ain't  ought  to  er  projicked  it  out,  though  I  know 
you  mean  well  by  me,  and  right  by  yourself  too.  I'll 
never  marry  no  woman  alive,"  said  John  Shore,  earn- 
estly. 

"  Well,  ef  you  won't,  yer  won't,"  she  retorted,  cheer- 
fully. "  Go  yer  own  ways  by  yer  lone  self,  and  if  you 
come  back  here  agin  and  tell  me  you're  dead  yourself 
till  you're  black  in  the  face,  I  won't  believe  yer,  John  ; 
and  if  I  hear  you're  livin'  here  and  livin'  there,  I'll  think 
to  myself,  'There's  no  knowin'  rightly,'  and  I  never 
expect  to  know  rightly  in  this  world ;  for  though  I've 

knowed  you,  livin'  and  dead,  fur  thirty  years " 

/ 


82  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

"  Jinny,  shake  hands.  Good-by  to  you !  Take  K. 
Mintah  home,  and  be  kind  to  her  when  you  git  a 
chance.  Go  to  her,  honey"  (to  the  child).  "  Good-by, 
now,"  said  John  Shore,  hurriedly,  and  so  moved  on,  as 
firm  as  ever  in  his  determination  to  leave  the  place,  but 
unconsciously  bound  to  it  afresh  by  the  very  unexpected 
evidences  he  had  that  morning  received  that  he  was  not 
as  poor  in  some  respects  as  he  had  thought. 


III. 


"  A  dog-rose  blushing  to  a  brook  ain't  modest^r  or  sweeter." 

Lowell. 

The  Mountain  had  its  feet  firmly  planted  in  the  plain, 
and  could  not  go  straying  about  the  world  as  some  of 
its  children  chose  to  do.  It  seemed  at  first  to  the  little 
community  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  come  with 
the  end  of  the  war,  and  that  there  was  nothing  more  to 
expect.  It  was  in  a  mechanical  fashion,  at  first,  that 
they  began  to  put  up  their  fences,  to  rebuild  and  restore, 
to  sow,  and  reap,  and  harvest,  and  take  up  the  old  life 
again,  and  marks  of  care  and  deep-seated  despondency 
were  as  visible  in  the  faces  of  the  young  and  middle- 
aged  as  they  had  formerly  been  in  those  of  the  elder 
folk.  But  soon  for  them  all — cruelly  soon  it  seemed  to 
some  widows,  and  mothers,  and  orphans — the  ante-bel- 
lum order  of  things  was  resumed,  with  only  such  indi- 
vidual loss,  and  pain,  and  privation  as  were  past  mending 
in  this  world.     It  was  as  though  some  rude  vehicle  had 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  83 

been  roughly  jolted  out  of  the  deep  ruts  it  had  made 
for  itself  and  had  then  slipped  back  into  them  again. 
No  one  on  the  Mountain  had  ever  owned,  or  so  much  as 
dreamed  of  owning,  a  slave,  and  there  was  no  change  in 
the  conditions  of  their  lives  as  in  those  of  the  class 
above  them.  They  had  always  been  poor,  they  had 
always  been  obliged  to  work,  they  had  always  been 
isolated  from  their  fellows ;  it  was  only  going  on  with 
their  accustomed  tasks  and  bearing  their  accustomed 
burdens  after  a  brief,  if  startling,  interruption.  Some 
of  the  women  whose  faces  had  long  borne  a  pathetic 
stamp  of  conscious  or  unconscious  sadness,  born  of 
the  lonely  grandeur  of  their  surroundings  and  the 
barrenness  of  their  lives,  now  sank  into  a  melancholy 
that  deepened  into  madness.  A  few  of  the  old  peo- 
ple could  no  longer  bear  up  under  losses  and  crosses 
that  their  poor  old  hearts  could  not  sustain.  But 
new  life,  new  hopes,  stirred  in  the  mass  of  the  people, 
and  in  twelve  years  so  peaceful  and  prosperous  was 
the  country  that  it  seemed  incredible  that  two  armies 
had  ever  occupied  it  for  four  years  and  played  at 
battledore  all  the  while  with  the  Mountain  for  shuttle- 
cock. There  had  been  changes  on  the  Mountain,  of 
course.  "  Brother"  White  had  died,  for  one  thing,  and 
Yital  Eeligion  had  only  abandoned  him  with  the  vital 
spark,  for,  falling  suddenly  ill  while  away  from  home 
visiting  an  Irish  friend  at  Harper's  Ferry,  he  had  been 
converted  on  his  death-bed  by  a  Eoman  Catholic  priest, 
and  then  and  there  ended  his  career  as  a  Seeker  before 
he  had  time  to  discover  the  existence  of  the  Old  Catho- 
lics or  of  the  Greek  and  Coptic  Churches.  The  affair 
created  a  great  sensation  among  his  friends  and  rela- 


84  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

tives,  none  of  whom  had  the  remotest  idea  what  "  a 
Eomian  Catholic"  was,  but  were  impressed  the  more  by 
his  determination  to  leave  no  known  religion  untried. 
"  I  see  him  the  night  befo'  he  lef  V'  said  one  of  them. 
"And  he  had  the  searchin's  turrible  then,  and  he  sez 
to  me,  'Jo,  there  ain't  no  let-up  in  this  here  Vital  Eelig- 
ion.  It's  wearin'  me  plum  out.  There's  pints  in  the 
Methodist  religion  that  suited,  and  pints  in  the  Bap- 
tist religion  that  suited,  and  pints  in  the  United  Bruth- 
ring,  and  the  Dunkards,  and  the  Campbellite,  and  all 
the  others  I've  tried,  that  when  I  stood,  and  thought 
of,  and  reflected  about,  and  meditated  on  'em,  seemed, 
and  'peared,  and  looked  like  they  was  it.  But  they 
warn't.  When  I  come  to  sift  'em,  and  to  examine  'em, 
and  to  weigh  'em,  and  to  balance  'em,  and  to  live  in  'em, 
Jo,  they  warn't  it.  Not  the  whole,  real  true,  sho-'nough 
and  no-mistake  thing, — no.'  Them  was  his  very 
words." 

Five  of  the  "  Cross-Eoads  Wilkins"  children  had  been 
swept  off  by  diphtheria  in  a  few  weeks. 

Goody  Williams  and  old  Daddy  Culbert,  at  fourscore, 
had,  on  the  contrary,  both  got  what  pugilists  would  call 
their  second  wind,  and  were  trying  another  round  with 
Time  with  great  spirit.  Joe  Potter,  who  had  been  the 
poorest  of  the  poor,  had  set  up  a  "  public,"  and  become 
the  richest  of  the  rich,  according  to  the  standards  of 
wealth  of  the  community,  and  had  bought  a  farm  in  the 
Valley,  and  "  couldn't  see  good"  when  ho  met  his  old 
friends,  and  attended  this  or  that  trial  at  "  the  cote- 
house"  in  his  own  buggy,  while  his  sister  had  been 
sent  to  the  county  almshouse. 

John  Culbert,  who  had  been  the  richest  of  the  rich, 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  85 

according  to  the  same  standards,  and  the  most  respecta- 
ble man  on  the  Mountain,  had  become  both  poor  and 
disreputable.  "  Sal  Jones's  husband"  was  dead  of  con- 
sumption, and  gone  to  a  world  where  it  is  to  be  hoped 
he  was  known  as  something  else  than  the  adjunct  of 
his  masterful  spouse;  and  Gus,  his  brother,  had  got  a 
place  "  to  stand  in  a  store"  in  a  neighboring  tOAvn,  than 
which  nothing  could  have  been  more  "  genteel."  Timo- 
thy White  had  amazed  everybody  by  marrying  Jinny 
Hodges,  who  got  the  credit  of  having  "spoke  the  word." 
He  had  long  since  "  taken  his  name  off  the  books  of  the 
church"  because  they  "  kep'  on  pesterin',"  and  no  doubt 
felt  the  need  of  some  such  stimulating  influence  as  was 
afforded  by  his  highly  loquacious  and  vivacious  spouse. 
The  IS'ewman  family  had  grown  steadily  larger  and 
poorer.  A  number  of  entries  had  followed  in  the  black 
Bible,  and  wonderful  characters  upon  that  of  little  "  R. 
Mintah,"  as  the  years  went  by,  ending  at  last  with  a 
pair  of  "  twins," — "  Simon  Peter"  and  "  Stonewall  Jack- 
son" by  name  and  the  scourges  of  the  neighborhood. 
Yet  they  were  all  fed  somehow,  if  but  coarsely ;  and  all 
clothed,  though  scantily;  and  Mrs.  Newman  seemed 
more  profoundly  placid  than  ever,  broader  and  milder, 
in  spite  of  her  increasing  cares  and  the  fact  that  the 
greatest  drain  of  all  upon  her  motherly  sympathies  was 
not  made  by  her  children  at  all,  but  by  her  husband,  a 
small  man  with  a  waspish  temper,  a  kind  heart,  and  a 
long-drawn  lawsuit  with  John  Culbert  about  a  "  year- 
ling" calf. 

Little  R  Mintah  had  shared  the  checkered  for- 
tunes of  the  family,  or  rather  their  misfortunes, — for 
the  black    squares  were  out  of   all  proportion  to  the 


86  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

white. — had  been  given  a  child's  portion  of  all  they 
possessed  with  the  other  children,  had  lacked  only 
what  all  lacked,  and  had  grown  into  a  slender,  round- 
waisted  young  girl,  small,  but  perfectly  formed,  sweet- 
faced,  and  "  tender-eyed"  as  Leah.  Such  a  shy,  quiet 
little  creature  was  she, — so  meekly  obedient  and  tracta- 
ble, so  grateful  for  kindness,  and  ready  to  do  or  suffer 
anything  for  her  adopted  family, — that  it  is  no  wonder 
that  she  was  liked  and  kindly  treated  by  them  all  in 
the  main,  and  a  favorite  with  Mrs.  Newman,  who 
always  spoke  of  her  as  "  a  good,  willin'  child"  and 
loved  her  for  many  reasons,  but  most  of  all  for  the 
benefits  she  had  conferred  upon  her.  Unfortunately, 
even  Juno  had  her  gadfly,  and  K.  Mintah,  a  poor  girl 
with  none  of  the  powers  and  privileges  of  a  goddess, 
had  a  bitter,  implacable  enemy  and  sad  torment  in  Ma- 
tilda Shore.  From  her  very  babyhood  Matilda  had  im- 
pressed upon  her  that  she  was  a  burden  to  and  a  blight 
upon  the  family.  It  was  she  who  set  her  impossible 
tasks,  and  whom,  do  what  she  would,  she  could  never 
please.  She  dealt  her  many  a  blow  openly,  and  more 
with  her  tongue  that  were  even  more  cruel,  and  made 
her  child's  heart  bleed  inwardly  and  swell  almost  to 
bursting  with  unutterable  grief  and  despair.  She  came 
over  every  day  for  the  express  purpose  of  sticking  a 
pin  of  some  kind  into  her,  and,  finding  her  digging  in  the 
garden,  sweeping,  cooking,  washing  industriously,  would 
still  bully  and  browbeat  her  as  harshly  as  though  she 
had  been  the  idlest,  worst  girl  in  the  world,  which,  in 
fact,  was  the  description  she  was  in  the  habit  of  giving 
of  her.  When  Matilda  lived  at  home,  she  had  rarely 
lifted  a  family  burden  with  so  much  as  the  tip  of  one 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  87 

finger,  for  she  was  as  selfish  as  imperious ;  but  all  the 
same  she  invented  work  continually  for  R.  Mintah, 
besides  seeing  that  she  got  a  full  share  of  the  regular 
daily  duties,  and  was  never  so  offended  as  when  she 
discovered  that  she  was  pleasantly  occupied,  if  only  in 
shelling  peas.  "  It's  scrubbin'  you  ought  to  be,  down 
on  your  hands  and  knees.  Miss,"  she  would  say,  "  and 
not  settin'  there  playin'  lady."  But  for  Matilda's  treat- 
ment the  girl  would  certainly  never  have  got  the  pecul- 
iarly deprecating  look  in  her  eyes  that  would  have  dis- 
armed any  one  less  hard  and  malignant, — a  look  that 
had  no  effect  whatever  on  the  enemy,  but  gave  her  a 
friend  scarcely  less  troublesome.  Exactly  when  Jonah, 
the  eldest  son  (a  big,  manly,  muscular  fellow)  began  to 
loom  up  as  E.  Mintah's  champion,  and  "  take  her  part," 
is  not  clear;  but  it  is  certain  that  bit  by  bit  he  took 
upon  himself  the  heaviest  of  her  daily  duties,  and  by 
gradual,  natural  transitions  became  first  her  friend  and 
then  her  lover.  Great  was  his  mother's  astonishment, 
as  she  sat  one  day  placidly  patching  one  of  about  twenty 
hopeless  garments,  to  have  him  fiing  open  the  back  door 
and  call  in,  angrily,  "Mother,  mother,  did  you  tell  R. 
Mintah  to  cut  up  this  here  hickory?  It's  a  sin  and  a 
shame!  She  shan't  put  an  axe  to  it.  No;  and  she  ain't 
goin'  to  do  nothin'  like  it,  neither,  while  Fm  here  to  do 
it  fur  her." 

Furious  beyond  precedent  was  Matilda  when  Jonah, 
finding  the  red  mark  of  her  hand  on  R.  Mintah's  cheek, 
and  learning  that  she  had  been  boxed  for  not  finishing 
a  dress  of  Matilda's  in  time  to  wear  the  preceding  Sun- 
day, seized  his  sister  and  shook  her  until  she  screamed 
with  fright,  and  threatened  worse  things  if  she  dared  to 


88  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

lay  a  finger  on  "  his  little  E.  Mintah."  It  was  then  that 
his  secret  love  for  the  good,  gentle,  little  girl  jumped 
out  of  his  heart  and  throat,  and  that  for  the  first  time 
she  learned  with  all  the  rest  what  he  felt  and  intended. 

''  I  love  her,"  he  said,  as  bold  as  a  lion,  "  and  I'm  goin' 
to  marry  her." 

"  No,  no,  Jonah !  you  ain't !  You  don't  I"  she  cried 
out,  seeing  what  a  tremendous  hearth-quake  had  been 
created  by  this  announcement,  and  weeping  bitterly  she 
fled  to  Mrs.  Newman,  and  dropping  down  by  her,  would 
have  buried  her  face  in  that  matron's  blue-checked 
apron,  but  was  repulsed  almost  as  if  it  had  been  Matilda 
instead,  and  getting  up  rushed  from  the  room.  Mr. 
Newman  was  told  of  it  that  night  by  his  wife,  and  the 
news  was  so  tremendous  that  it  actually  drove  the  law- 
suit out  of  his  mind  for  fully  an  hour;  and  then  it  was 
curious  to  see  how  he  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have 
changed  characters  with  his  wife,  and  to  take  what  had 
happened  in  a  most  amiable  and  kindly  spirit,  while  she 
was  fretting  herself  into  a  fever. 

"  You  must  have  knowed  she'd  marry  sometime,"  he 
said,  at  first  with  a  masculine  irrecognition  of  the  situa- 
tion that  was  aggravating  bej^ond  description. 

"  It  ain't  her  a-marryin'  that  I'm  a-thinkin'  of.  It's 
JonaWs  the  trouble!  It's  the  beatenest  thing  I  How 
he  ever  come  to  think  of  that  ugly  little  child, — she 
ain't  nothin'  but  a  child, — when  he  could  have  any  girl 
on  the  Mountain,  beats  all.  She's  put  it  in  his  head. 
She's  a  hussy!"  declaimed  Mrs.  Newman,  no  more  just 
in  her  anger  than  the  rest  of  us  are.  "  But  she  shan't 
never  have  my  boy, — no !  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
herself,  after  all  I've  done  fur  her." 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  89 

"  Now,  mother,  you're  gittin'  hoppin',  and  you  don't 
rightly  know  what  you're  sayin'.  Ain't  I  heerd  you  say 
agin  and  agin  that  E.  Mintah  was  the  best  girl  you  ever 
see,  and  better  to  you'n  any  child  uv  you  own,  and  kind 
to  the  children  always?  and  ain't  I  heerd  you  wishin' 
to  goodness  A.  Mander  was  more  like  her  ?  And  now 
you're  down  on  her,  and  givin'  her  fits.  Ef  you've  got 
any  fuss  with  her,  that's  one  thing,  but  don't  go  on 
callin'  names.  It  ain't  reason.  It  ain't  law.  Give  me 
the  pints  of  the  case,  and  I'll  know  what  to  say.  You've 
lost  your  temper ;  that's  what,  mother.  Now  git  cool, 
git  cool,  and  give  me  the  pints  of  this  here  case,  and  I'll 
give  a  verdick  and  stop  all  this."  Mr.  Newman's  mind 
was  naturally  saturated  with  the  legal  aspects  of  things 
just  then,  and  as  he  worked  away  at  the  huge  pair  of 
new  brogans  that  he  was  greasing  he  brought  his 
mouth  to  a  focus  and  listened  to  what  his  wife  had  to 
say  with  a  highly  judicial  air  of  reserve  and  imparti- 
ality. And  when  she  had  angrily  presented  her  case, 
and,  with  many  tears,  had  sobbed  out  that  she  never 
would  "  on  the  face  of  the  yearth"  have  E.  Mintah  for 
a  daughter-in-law,  and,  moreover,  threatened  a  thousand 
things  that  she  was  much  too  good  and  kind  to  carry 
out, he  said,  "Mother,  you  ain't  got  no  argymint  at  all. 
Gittin'  mad  and  callin'  names  ain't  argymints.  The 
girl's  a  good  girl  and  you  know  it;  and  ef  Jonah's  took 
a  likin'  to  her  and  set  his  mind  on  her  he'll  carry  this 
thing  through  ef  he's  got  to  git  the  devil  fur  his  law- 
yer and  pay  him  with  his  immortial  soul !  You  know 
what  Jonah  is.  My  verdick  is,  cover  down  your 
feelin's,  and  shet  off  steam,  and  stop  thrashin'  chaff,  and 
tell  them  two  to  go  'long  and  git  married  together,  and 


90  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

you'll  give  'era  aa  good  a  send-off  as  you  kin.  That's 
my  verdickj  and  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  'bout.  I've 
got  argymint  jes'  natchelly.  Lawyer  Morgan  sez 
to  me  to-day  when  I  was  goin'  over  the  pints  agin  and 
showin'  him  how  things  stood  between  me  and  that 
damned,  lyin',  thievin'  raskil,  Jack  Culbert, — he  sez  to 
me,  '  Mr.  Newman,  you  ain't  had  no  need  to  come  to 
me.  You  could  argy  this  case  at  any  cote-house  in  the 
country  and  fetch  the  jury  every  time.'  And  he  seed 
I  was  in  the  right,  but  said  ef  I'd  take  his  advice  I'd 
fix  this  thing  up  with  Jack  Culbert  and  his  lawyer  and 
stop  lawin'.  But  I  told  him  I'd  see  Jack  Culbert  in 
hell  befo'  I'd  agree  to  give  him  a  cent,  or  one  inch  of 
that  yearlin's  hoofs,  horns,  or  tail,  and  so  I  will." 

Mr.  Newman  was  not  the  only  man  who  heard  what 
had  happened.  Timothy  White,  who  was  Mrs.  New- 
man's brother,  was  given  a  dozen  versions  of  it,  and 
enjoyed  it  in  his  taciturn  fashion  as  another  form  of 
'•'experience."  His  advice  tallied  on  the  whole  with 
that  of  his  brother-in-law,  but  was  given  far  more  sen- 
tentiously.  To  Matilda,  who  came  raging  and  storming 
and  spitting  out  all  the  venom  and  malice  with  which 
she  was  bursting,  he  said,  "  Let  'em  alone.  Mind  your 
own  business." 

To  Mrs.  Newman,  who  wailed  out  her  sorrow  and 
indignation,  he  said,  "  Tilly,  j-ou're  a  fool.     Go  home 
and  git  back  into  your  right  mind  agin,  and  be  kind' 
like  you've   always   been    to  both    them   childi'en  uv 
yourn," — quite  the  longest  speech  of  his  on  record. 

To  Jonah,  who  poured  out  a  copious  flood  of  love 
and  grief  and  anger,  he  vouchsafed  a  curt  "  Stick  to 
her." 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  91 

To  E.  Mintah,  who  wept,  speechless,  and  meekly 
miserable  when  they  met,  a  mild  "  Don't  cry.  Stick  to 
him." 

But  if  Timothy  had  few  words  to  waste  on  even  such 
an  important  matter,  it  was  very  different  with  his 
wife,  who  put  on  her  sun-bonnet  about  twice  a  day  and 
went  to  some  house  where,  with  the  aid  of  the  other 
women,  the  whole  question  was  turned  over  and  over, 
and  inside  out,  and  upside  down,  and  "the  rights  of  it," 
and  the  wrongs,  peculiarities,  characters,  and  circum- 
stances of  everybody  concerned,  were  discussed  to  an 
unlimited  and  truly  awful  extent. 

A  bad  three  weeks  it  was  for  poor  little  R.  Mintah, 
who  never  afterwards  forgot  the  wretchedness  of  that 
time.  For  Mrs.  Newman,  influenced  and  inspired  by 
Matilda,  took  high  ground,  and  sternly  forbade  the 
match,  and  was  so  unkind  and  so  cold  to  her  little 
adopted  that  the  girl,  who  adored  her  vice-mother,  was 
made  miserable.  If  Mrs.  Newman  had  been  Queen  of 
England,  and  Jonah  Prince  of  Wales,  bent  upon  set- 
ting a  beggar-maid  upon  the  throne  a  la  Cophetua,  she 
could  not  have  been  more  conscious  of  the  terrible 
nature  and  consequences  of  a  mesalliance,  and  more  de- 
termined to  avert  the  calamity. 

As  to  R.  Mintah, — between  Jonah,  who  would  not  be 
repulsed,  kissed  her  boldly,  night  and  morning,  before 
the  assembled  family,  and  expected  her  to  do  exactly 
what  he  wished  and  commanded,  and  the  family,  neu- 
tral, scornful,  talking  at  her,  but  not  to  her,  leaving  her 
severely  alone,  calling  the  very  children  away  from  her, 
offering  her  nothing  at  table,  treating  her  in  ever}^- 
thing  as  a  stranger  among  them,  even  to  the  point  of 


92  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

doing  all  her  work, — it  was  no  wonder  that  the  loving- 
hearted  child  was  perfectly  miserable.  And  when  Ma- 
tilda came  over  with  the  express  intention,  avowed 
before  she  left  home,  of  "giving  that  minx  a  tongue- 
lashin',''  which  happened  almost  daily,  the  burden  of 
life  often  seemed  to  the  girl  more  than  she  could 
bear,  and  she  got  so  pale  that  Jonah  got  red  with 
anger  every  time  he  looked  at  her,  and  so  thin  that 
the  beautiful  red  celluloid  ring  which  he  had  given 
her  (price  five  cents)  rolled  off  the  index-finger  of 
her  small,  toil-marked  hand  over  and  over  again. 
Jonah  was  tabooed,  too,  though  not  boycotted,  he 
being  an  important  member  of  the  family,  and  his 
wages  more  important  still ;  and  his  mother,  after  ex- 
hausting all  her  arguments  and  entreaties,  even  threat- 
ened him  one  day :  "  Me  and  your  pap  will  up  and  take 
both  uv  you  down  to  Mr.  Mathers,"  she  said  (that 
gentleman  being  the  Baptist  minister,  and  final  referee 
and  chief  authority  of  the  neighborhood,  combining  in 
his  own  person  as  a  "  preacher"  and  magistrate  all  the 
terrors  of  the  law  and  Gospel).  "  We'll  see  whether 
you  keep  on  with  these  here  carryin's  on." 

"  Ef  all  the  preachers  that  e^er  wuz,  and  the  judges, 
and  the  President — ef  General  Lee  wuz  alive,  and  wuz 
to  set  there  and  to  tell  me  to  give  E.  Mintah  up,  I 
wouldn't  do  it!"  exclaimed  Jonah,  hotly,  while  his  timid 
little  lady-love  sobbed  out  from  behind  the  apron  she 
had  thrown  over  her  head :  "  Oh  I  don't  take  us — don't 
take  us  to  Mr.  Mathers !  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  marry 
Jo — o — 0 — nah  !     Never!     Never!     Nev — er!" 

*'  She  ain't  fitten  to  marry  you,  and  she  knows  it," 
saitl  Mrs.  Newman. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  93 

<'  No — no  !  I  ain't.     I  won't !"  agreed  E.  Mintah. 

"  She's  fit  to  marry  anybody !"  roared  out  Jonah,  with 
a  stamp  of  his  big  boots.  "  She's  worked  day  and 
night  fur  all  uv  you,  she's  been  driv  to  death  by  some 
uv  you,  she's  the  best  and  the  prettiest  girl  in  this 
whole  country,  en  you  might  jes'  as  well  try  to  move 
Eound  Hill  as  me.     I'm  goin'  to  marry  her." 

"You  shan't  do  no  sech  thing,  I  say.  I'll  turn  her 
right  out  in  the  Lane  ef  you  say  another  word !" 
shrieked  Mrs.  Newman,  quite  beside  herself,  whereupon 
K.  Mintah  gave  a  deep  groan  of  despair,  and  cried  out, 
as  though  she  had  been  struck,  "  Oh," — and  then, 
catching  the  expression  of  Jonah's  face, — "  I'll  go  !  I'll 
go !"  and  actually  started  to  do  so,  but  was  seized  by 
Jonah  and  brought  back  again  bodily. 

"Stay  still.  Stay  right  here,"  he  said  to  her,  and 
then  to  his  mother  in  a  voice  grown  suddenly  quiet, 
"  Do  you  rightly  know,  mother,  what  you're  sayin'  ? 
If  E.  Mintah  is  sent  out,  I'll  never  darken  your  door 
agin,  nor  she,  neither.  But  I'll  marry  her  all  the  same. 
Now,  say  the  word."  But  Mrs.  Newman  only  burst 
into  tears  instead,  and  would  say  nothing  at  all,  which 
under  the  circumstances  was  the  best  thing  that  could 
possibly  have  been  said  if  she  had  known  fifty  languages. 
The  truth  was  that  Jonah  perfectly  well  knew  the  soft 
and  kindly  stuff  that  he  had  to  deal  with,  and  was 
very  sure  of  getting  his  way  in  the  end.  But  he  did 
not  get  it  immediately. 

Affairs  were  in  this  state  of  gloom  and  unrest,  when 
a  project  was  set  afoot  that  created  a  great  stir,  and 
was  talked  of  at  "  the  sto' "  (the  conversation-haus, 
club,  news-room,  exchange,  post-office,  and  grocery  of 


94  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

the  neighborhood)  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other, 
almost,  for  weeks  before  it  became  an  accomplished 
fact.  It  was  a  proposition  of  the  most  novel  and 
startling  nature, — of  an  unparalleled  character,  indeed. 
And  then  the  scope  of  it  I  It  was  nothing  less  than 
that  the  Mountain  should  amuse  itself!  And  a  picnic 
at  Harper's  Ferry,  in  another  vState  actually,  was  the 
mode  chosen  for  doing  so!  There  was  no  pretence, 
even,  of  its  being  anything  but  a  pleasure-party.  It 
could  not  be  actually  traced  to  anybody,  so  nobody 
could  be  held  personally  responsible  for  it.  It  seemed 
to  be  in  the  air, — a  fearful  fungus  growing  out  of  the 
decay  of  all  venerable  and  respectable  institutions, — 
and  to  combat  it  was  like  tackling  original  sin.  The 
Blue  Eidge,  Winchell  tells  us,  was  once  several  thousand 
feet  higher  than  it  is  now,  and  has  been  worn  down 
inch  by  inch  through  sucessive  centuries  to  its  present 
proportions.  And  in  the  same  way  the  prejudices  of 
the  Mountain  were  beginning  to  disappear,  and  it  had 
become  possible  for  the  world  to  look  over  its  wall  and 
for  a  winged  seed  from  the  flower  of  a  restless  and 
sensuous  civilization  to  drop  inside  the  idea  that  people 
could  quit  work  for  a  whole  day,  and  go  ''  fifty  miles" 
away,  for  the  sole  and  express  purpose  of  amusing 
themselves.  It  was  no  wonder  that  the  elders  de- 
nounced it  as  vicious  in  conception  and  ruinous  in  its 
consequences, — the  beginning  of  the  end  of  all  agricul- 
tural righteousness.  It  was  as  plain  as  could  be  that 
virtue  was  staying  at  home  all  the  year  'round,  and 
working  from  morning  until  night,  and  that  pleasure 
was  only  another  name  for  vice.  Considering  the  re- 
laxations that  human  nature  had  filched  from  under  the 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  95 

nose  of  the  authorities  engaged  in  supporting  this  im- 
possible code,  their  view  of  the  case  was  not  unnatural. 
Pleasure  had  meant  vice  on  the  Mountain,  as  it  always 
must  when  men  who  are  neither  machines  nor  brutes 
are  expected  to  Hve  as  though  they  were  both ;  and  its 
votaries  were  of  two  classes  :  the  hypocrites,  who  sinned 
secretly  and  sanctimoniously  with  no  loss  of  caste  in 
the  community ;  and  the  wilful  offenders,  Avho  openly 
abandoned  themselves  for  the  time  to  such  gross  grati- 
fications as  came  in  their  way. 

The  elders,  then,  denounced  the  proposed  picnic  as 
the  most  patent  invention  of  the  evil  one ;  but  to  the 
young  people  it  opened  up  irresistible  vistas  of  innocent 
fun  and  frolic,  and  every  Jessamy  of  them  all  no  sooner 
heard  of  the  plan  than  he  became  possessed  by  the  idea 
of  a  day  spent  in  feasting  and  dancing  and  sweetheart- 
ing  with  his  Jenny.  So  that  while  Daddy  Culbert, 
sitting  on  a  chicken-coop  at  "  the  sto','*  with  his  poor 
old  back  bent  nearly  double  over  his  stick,  was  angrily 
declaiming  in  feeble-forcible  terms  on  the  puerihty  and 
the  wickedness  of  the  whole  proceeding,  saying,  "  I 
never  heerd  nothin'  like  it  in  all  my  born  days!  No, 
sir !  I  never  heerd  of  no  sich  doin's.  I'd  er  got  the 
cowhide  ef  I'd  ever  talked  to  my  father  'bout  quittin' 
my  work  to  go  three  counties  off  to  a  picnic.  He'd 
er  picnicked  me  with  fifty  on  my  bare  back,  and  it 
would  er  sarved  me  right,  sir," — at  this  moment,  I 
say.  Daddy  Culbert's  grandson,  who  had  Montague- 
Capulet  relations  of  a  most  tender  and  complicated 
character  with  Miss  "  A.  Mander"  ISTewman,  was  asking 
that  young  lady,  with  the  most  unbounded  pride  and 
delight,   whether  he  might  "  'scort"   her  to  Harper's 


96  BEHIND    TUB  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Ferry  on  the  following  Friday.  And  even  Hi  Leathers, 
proprietor  of  the  "sto',"  was  so  offended  by  what  he 
felt  to  be  almost  a  personal  attack,  since  he  and  his  wife 
and  his  children  seven  were  all  committed  to  the  picnic 
to  the  extent  of  a  "  snack"  (viz.,  a  ham,  two  cakes,  a 
pot  of  "  apple-butter,"  a  box  of  sardines)  and  nine  rail- 
way tickets,  that  he  first  reproved  Daddy  Culbert 
sternly  for  taking  and  eating  an  apple  off  one  of  the 
barrels,  saying,  "Look  here!  I  don't  keep  a  bodin' 
house.  Them  apples  is  set  out  there  to  make  a  show- 
off,  and  not  for  no  loafers," — although  apples  were  as 
plentiful  as  blackberries  that  season, — and  five  minutes 
later  advised  him  rather  pointedly  to  "  go  'long  home, 
where  he  belonged," — conduct  that  greatly  incensed  the 
old  man. 

Jonah  was  a  great  promoter  and  supporter  of  the 
picnic  from  the  first,  and  worked  hard,  after  hours,  for 
three  weeks  to  get  the  indispensable  requisite  for  the 
entertainment.  He  meant  not  only  to  enjoy  it,  but  to 
make  a  figure  on  the  occasion.  By  nice  management 
he  engaged  a  buggy  in  which  to  drive  E.  Mintah  into 
town,  having  found  a  man  there  w^ho  for  and  in  con- 
sideration of  "  a  likely  shoat"  agreed  to  let  him  have 
the  use  of  it,  and  to  take  charge  of  that  vehicle,  so 
that  he  could  drive  home  again  by  moonlight.  Ho 
bought  himself  his  "weddin'  suit."  He  got  a  magnifi- 
cent turkey-red  calico  for  R.  Mintah,  and  told  her 
that  it  was  to  be  her  "  frock"  on  the  same  occasion. 
He  also  laid  upon  her  shrine  a  yellow  parasol,  a  sailor- 
bat,  a  breast-pin,  a  cake  of  soap,  a  dressing-comb,  and 
some  other  elegant  trifles,  sentimental  in  insj^iration, 
but  susceptible  of  practical  application.     And  then  he 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  97 

threw  himself  down  in  a  split-bottomed  chair  by  her, 
put  his  feet  some  distance  above  his  head,  and,  after 
haw-hawing  in  loud  satisfaction,  said,  in  his  big,  boom- 
ing, hearty  voice,  "  I  tell  you,  R  Mintah,  we're  goin' 
to  coot  it  on  Friday!"  and  abandoned  himself  to  the 
most  delicious  revery.  Jonah  had  reserved  the  most 
impressive  details  of  the  scheme  to  heighten  the  effect 
of  the  bliss  he  had  planned ;  but  she  knew  enough  to 
be  dazzled  by  the  prospect  unfolded  to  her,  and  she 
would  have  revelled  in  it  but  for  her  unhappy  position. 
She  plucked  up  courage  in  the  course  of  a  week  to  tell 
Mrs.  Newman  of  it,  and  asked  permission  to  go,  with 
infinite  meekness  of  mind  and  manner,  but  got  very 
little  sympathy,  and  only  such  encouragement  as  could 
be  found  in  her  cold  "  Don't  come  askin'  me.  You  ain't 
no  child  of  mine.  I  ain't  got  no  controlment  of  you." 
Mrs.  Newman,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  had 
worked  herself  up  into  a  sore-hearted,  wrong-headed 
state  of  resentment  and  anger  that  required  to  be  care- 
fully nursed  lest  it  should  expend  itself,  and  she  took 
a  perverse  satisfaction  in  the  suffering  she  knew  she 
was  inflicting.  So  little  R.  Mintah  made  herself  as 
small  as  possible,  and  kept  as  much  as  possible  out  of 
everybody's  way,  suing  ever  by  wprd  and  look  for  the 
reconciliation  her  loving  heart  longed  for ;  and,  failing 
to  get  it,  she  shrunk  into  a  corner,  and  stitched  away, 
day  by  day,  sorrowfully,  on  her  raiment,  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking :  troubled  thoughts  of  her  own  un- 
happiness  and  the  unkindness  she  received,  but  not 
bitter,  still  less  revengeful,  ones, — tender  thoughts  of 
Jonah's  strength  and  beauty,  and  wisdom  and  goodness, 
and  unbounded  generosity  and  astounding  condescen- 
E        ^  9 


98  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

sion  in  caring  for  a  creature  so  far,  far  beneath  him  in 
every  way, — anxious  thoughts  of  what  the  end  could 
bo  of  such  a  dreadful  state  of  affairs.  And  night  after 
night  she  watered  her  straw  pillow,  which  was  as  hard 
as  fate,  with  meek  tears,  quietly  shed  for  fear  of  waking 
the  two  children  that  shared  her  bed.  In  spite  of  her 
sadness,  she  could  not  help  delighting  in  the  splendor 
that  was  to  be  hers.  She  tried  on  her  new  shoes  by 
moonlight,  and  had  to  take  them  off  again  almost  im- 
mediately, so  guilty  did  she  feel  when  she  heard  their 
clamorous  dollar- store  creak  on  the  bare  boards.  She 
gazed  at  the  dress  Jonah  had  bought,  and  it  seemed 
impossible  that  it  could  be  really  hers.  People  in  the 
best  circles  on  the  Mountain  trimmed  with  turkey-red. 
But  a  whole  dress  of  such  expensive  stuff!  What  adora- 
ble folly  and  extravagance !  And  was  ever  so  bright  a 
sun  obscured  by  such  a  black  cloud  ?  If  Mother  New- 
man would  only  forgive  her  and  love  her  again,  and  let 
her  marry  Jonah  in  ten  or  twelve  years,  when  she  had 
learned  how  to  do  everything !  If  she  could  only  put 
on  that  beautiful  dress  and  go  off  to  the  picnic  with  her 
full  consent  and  approbation  !     What  perfect  bliss ! 

The  great  day  came,  and  proved  fair,  to  old  Daddy  Cul- 
bert's  disgust,  he  being  anxious  for  "jest  a  leetle  more  rain 
to  round  out  the  corn,"  but  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of 
everybody  else,  and  by  daylight  everybody  was  astir. 
Some  people,  indeed,  must  have  been  astir  long  before, 
for  R.  Mintah,  having  been  kept  awake  until  late  by 
the  feverishness  of  joyous  anticipation,  was  aroused 
while  it  was  still  only  darkly  light*  by  a  sound  as  of 
some  one  moving  about  the  room,  and  sitting  up  and 
rubbing  her  eyes,  beheld  a  familiar  figure,  and  would 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  99 

have  exclaimed,  "  Why,  Mandy !"  in  her  amazement, 
but  that  she  was  met  with  a  "  Hesh !  Lay  still,  and 
jes'  hold  your  tongue !" 

"  What  are  you  goin'  to  do  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  run  off  to  the  picnic  with  Marsh  Cul- 
bert,  that's  what !"  was  whispered  back. 

" My  goodness  gracious  alive!  You  ain't  T'  exclaimed 
E.  Mintah,  aghast,  ^^  Mandy  V  But  that  was  exactly 
what  that  rebellious  young  person  meant  to  do,  know- 
ing the  utter  uselessness  of  attempting  to  get  leave 
from  her  parents  to  go  anywhere  with  a  Culbert.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  fully  and  festively  arrayed,  she  took 
her  shoes  in  her  hand,  and,  with  a  warning  look  at  E. 
Mintah,  slipped  down-stairs  with  a  heart  thumping  like 
an  engine  under  a  full  "  head"  of  steam.  It  was  cer- 
tainly unfortunate  that  Mr.  ISTewman  should  at  that 
very  moment  have  issued  from  his  room  and  caught 
her  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  house.  The  explosion  of 
wrath  that  ensued  was  something  tremendous,  and  soon 
brought  together  every  member  of  the  family.  Mr. 
jSTewman  had  long  had  certain  vague  suspicions,  and  in 
the  torpedo  shock  of  discovery  the  unfortunate  Amanda 
had  betrayed  the  rest.  There  had  been  rumors  of  talks 
in  the  orchard  and  a  walk  in  the  woods,  too,  duly  poured 
into  Mrs.  Newman's  ears  by  her  female  friends  and 
confirmed  by  the  children.  So  now  Mr.  Newman  quite 
forgot  that  "  argymint"  was  his  peculiar  forte,  and  not 
content  with  "calling  names,"  shook  Amanda  pretty 
roughly  and  sent  her  back  to  her  room,  and  not  con- 
tent with  that,  ev^n,  seized  his  gun  and  fairly  plunged 
down  the  Lane,  where  he  found  exactly  the  representa- 
tive of  the  false  brood  of  Culbert  that  he  thought  to 


100  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

find,  and  so  railed  upon  and  scared  that  youth  that  he 
was  speedily  driven  from  the  field,  the  freckles  that  had 
earned  him  the  sobriquet  of  "  Turkey"  Culbert  standing 
out  in  unusually  high  relief  from  a  pallid  background, 
a  fixed  conviction  in  his  mind  that  Mr.  Newman  had 
gone  "plum  crazy." 

The  morning  having  begun  thus  stormily  indoors,  R. 
Mintah  gave  up  the  picnic  for  lost,  and  fairly  quaked  in 
her  beautiful  new  boots  at  the  mere  thought  of  ever 
having  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  Amanda's  unpar- 
alleled audacity,  however,  had  the  effect  of  diverting 
attention  from  her  altogether.  Such  mutiny  as  hers 
was  a  very  minor  affair — by  contrast  almost  a  righteous 
and  virtuous  outbreak — compared  to  the  infamy  of  a  girl 
who  could  "  confound  that  derned  calf!"  to  her  parents' 
face  and  confess  openly  that  she  cared  for  a  Culbert. 
Mr.  Newman  could  not  even  pronounce  the  hated  name 
without  a  vicious  jerk  of  the  head  to  the  right  on  the 
first  syllable,  followed  by  another  to  the  left  on  the 
second,  and  he  stormed  about  the  house  so  furiously 
that  Mrs.  Newman  had,  perforce,  to  take  up  again  her 
old  role  of  soothing  and  consolatory  reflection  and  com- 
ment and  amiable  impassiveness.  It  was  she,  indeed, 
who,  after  watching  Jonah  fidget  about  the  room  for  a 
while,  said,  "  Go  and  git  read}^,  E.  Mintah,  if  so  be  as 
you're  going  to  go  to  that  there  picnic,"  and  so  much 
of  the  harshness  was  gone  from  her  voice  that  R  Min- 
tah darted  an  eager,  humble  glance  at  her,  and  then 
Jonah  adding,  "  Hurry  up  and  be  smart  about  it,"  she 
ran  off  to  her  room,  escaping,  as  it  were,  between  two 
thunderbolts  that  Mr.  Newman  was  launching  at  those 
"  cussed,  cattle-thievin',  caripterous  Culberts."    ("  Carip- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  101 

terous"  was  a  word  of  Jake  White's  discovering  or  in- 
vention, and  was  supposed  to  convey  scorn  and  contempt 
in  the  superlative  degree.)  There  she  lost  no  time  in 
putting  on  her  simple  finery  without  any  of  the  fond, 
lingering  touches  and  prolonged  enjoyment  of  each  of 
its  delightful  details  that  she  would  otherwise  have  in- 
dulged in,  and  going  down  she  ventured  to  murmur  a 
very  faint  good-by  to  all  the  family,  her  eye  seeking 
Mrs.  ISTewman's  the  while,  and  so  through  the  room, 
Jonah  taking  her  by  the  arm  and  drawing  her  out- 
side. 

"  Look-a-here !"  said  he,  indicating  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  that  he  was  a  subject  to  repay  critical  exami- 
nation.    "  Sto'  close.     Bully,  ain't  they  ?" 

And  E.  Mintah,  struck  almost  dumb  by  what  she  saw, 
could  only  exclaim  at  first,  "  My  goodness  me !"  twice, 
and  then,  "Oh,  Jonah,  how  good-lookin'  you  are!" 

"And  look-a-yonder !"  he  commanded,  pointing  to- 
wards the  gate,  and  E.  Mintah  looking  saw  a  vehicle  as 
magnificent  as  the  lord-mayor's  coach  in  an  old  rattle- 
trap drawn  by  an  anatomical  study  in  the  shape  of  a 
horse, — a  lank,  low-spirited  white  horse  with  a  Eoman 
nose  and  a  tired  tail. 

"  Oh,  Jonah,"  she  exclaimed  again,  her  face  flushed 
with  delight,  "  it  ain't  never  a  huggy  V 

"  Yes,  it  is,  too,  as  sho'  as  you  are  born,"  he  affirmed. 
"  Come  'long !" 

He  strode  ahead  eagerly,  and  when  she  came  up  he 
pulled  a  large  basket  from  under  the  seat,  saying,  "  And 
look-a-there!" 

"  Oh,  Jonah !"  cried  E.  Mintah  for  the  third  time. 
"  My  I     Well,  I  never  did  !     Pickles  !  and  a  coky-nut  I 

9* 


102  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

and  cakes  !  and  pies  1  and  beer !  and  I  don't  know  what 
all!" 

"  Git  in,"  said  he,  affecting  to  ignore  her  raptures,  but 
really  almost  bursting  with  gratified  vanity  and  affec- 
tion. E.  Mintah  obeyed.  "  Put  up  yar  rumberella,"  he 
commanded,  and  the  yellow  parasol  shot  up  above  her 
head. 

"I^ow,  if  there's  anything   mo'   that   you  want,  R. 

Mintah "  he  began,  feeling  perfectly  certain   that 

there  wasn't. 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  on  the  top  of  the  green  yearth," 
she  affirmed,  earnestly,  with  a  beaming  look  of  tender- 
ness. On  hearing  this  Jonah  took  his  place  by  her,  put 
his  feet  on  the  dashboard,  lit  a  five-cent  cigar,  pushed 
his  hat  well  back  on  his  head,  and  was  about  to  drive 
off  when  he  remembered  that  he  had  forgotten  to  bring 
out  a  whij). 

"A  segar !  Oh,  Jonah!"  said  R.  Mintah,  in  a  tone 
of  mild  reproach,  feeling  that  this  was  giving  the  reins 
to  reckless  expenditure.     "  A  segar  !     Mercy !" 

"  Set  still  and  don't  you  move  till  I  come  back,"  ho 
cautioned  fondly.  "I  don'  know  nothin'  'bout  that 
horse,  noways,  and  he  may  start  off  and  you  git  hurt. 
Whoa  there !" 

He  need  not  have  concerned  himself  about  that  highly 
phlegmatic  animal  if  he  had  only  known  it.  A  fire 
might  have  been  built  under  "  Old  Ilunderd,"  as  the 
gray  had  been  christened  by  his  facetious  owner,  with- 
out his  moving  an  inch.  But  not  knowing  this,  Jonah 
kept  an  eye  on  him  while  running  back  to  the  house. 
He  had  disappeared  inside,  and  R  Mintah  was  swinging 
her  feet  in  an  abandonment  of  utter  content  and  looking 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  103 

after  him  with  a  happy  smile,  when  she  heard  a  harsh, 
scornful  voice  behind  her  say,  "Who's  that?  E.  Min- 
tah !  You  in  a  buggy  ?"  It  was  Matilda  endimanchee 
walking  down  to  get  in  a  neighbor's  cart,  with  Alfred 
by  her  side  taking  his  pleasure  very  sadly  indeed. 

"Jonah  he  done  it,"  explained  E.  Mintah.  "I  didn't 
know — I  hadn't  no  idee — I  never " 

"Git  out!  Git  right  out!"  commanded  Matilda. 
"  Jonah's  my  brother,  and  do  you  suppose  Tm  goin'  to 
town  in  a  cart  and  you  ride  in  a  carriage?  No  indeed 
and  double  deed.  Miss  !  Ef  he's  got  the  money  to  fool 
away  hirin'  round  buggies,  Tm  the  one  to  be  settin'  in 
'em.     Git  right  out." 

"Sh!  Tildy!  Come  on,"  put  in  Alfred.  "Time's  a 
flyin'.     Trains  are  startin'." 

E.  Mintah  had  hesitated  for  a  moment  about  obeying. 
Had  not  Jonah  told  her  to  stay  there?  She  looked  up 
the  path,  but  not  seeing  him,  she  first  said,-^ 

"  I'm  feared  to  leave  this  here  sperriting  horse,"  and 
then,  scared  by  the  fierceness  of  Matilda's  expression  as 
she  advanced  a  step,  saying,  "  Ef  you  don't  git  out  this 
minute  I'll  drag  yer  out!"  she  meekly  descended  to 
earth  again.  Matilda  immediately  took  her  place, 
saying,  "  Come,  set  here,  Alfred,"  to  her  husband,  who 
coughed  and  stroked  his  chin  reflectively,  but  made  no 
movement. 

"  Grazin's  mighty  poor,"  said  he.  "  I  never  see  it  no 
poorer.     Horses  is  lookin'  bad.     Eains " 

"  Who's  talkin'  'bout  rains  ?"  shouted  Matilda.  "  Come, 
git  in.     There's  room  fur  you  and  me  and  Jonah." 

Alfred  looked  at  her  and  then  at  E.  Mintah  in  a  state 
of  dubiety  painful  to  witness.    "  Ahem  !  I  dunno,  Tildy, 


104  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

as "  he  begaD,  but  got  no  further,  for  at  that  mo- 
ment Jonah  ran  down  the  path,  whip  in  hand.  Ma- 
tilda's color,  like  her  temper,  flamed  high ;  but  she  kept 
her  seat,  and  with  a  sudden  inspiration  she  leaned  for- 
ward and  smote  Old  Hundred  so  soundly  on  the  right 
flank  that,  utterly  amazed,  he  was  actually  startled  into 
a  gallop.  Eide  to  the  picnic  E.  Mintah  never  should  ! 
But  Jonah  gave  chase,  and  in  a  few  minutes  came  up 
with  her.  No  power  on  earth  could  keep  the  gray  in  a 
gallop.  A  violent  scene  ensued  between  the  brother 
and  sister, — E.  Mintah  begging  and  imploring  both  of 
them  to  stop,  and  weeping  copiously  when  she  found 
that  neither  of  them  would  listen  to  her ;  Alfred  start- 
ing forward  and  saying,  "Tilda!  Look  here!  Here 
Tilda!  Jonah!"  and  then  turning  to  E.  Mintah  with 
a  helpless  roll  of  the  eyes,  "  'Pears  like  they're  hound 
to  clinch.     Don't  it,  now?" 

"  Clinch"  in  the  bodily  sense  they  did  not,  though  it 
was  as  much  as  Jonah  could  do  not  to  lay  his  whip  over 
his  sister's  shoulder.  A  look  came  into  his  eyes,  how- 
ever, that  cooled  even  her  fiery  blood.  Jonah  angry  was 
enough  to  alarm  anybody,  for,  like  the  famous  Italian 
athlete,  Milo,  of  Crotona,  he  could  kill  a  bullock  with  a 
blow  of  his  fist.  Seeing  that  she  quailed  before  him, 
he  sternly  bade  her  "'light."  She  scrambled  out ;  he 
jumped  in,  called  to  E.  Mintah  to  join  him,  and  off  they 
drove,  leaving  Matilda  vilifying  and  raging  with  even 
greater  iury  than  at  first,  now  that  it  was  entirely  safe 
to  do  so,  and  Alfred  doing  his  best  to  pacify  her  with 
such  obvious  truths  and  aphorisms  as  occurred  to  him. 

This  was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  "  plcasurin'  "  that  E. 
Mintah  had  counted  upon,  and  for  at  least  a  mile  she 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  105 

continued  to  sob  quite  hysterically.  And  of  course 
Johah  had  to  comfort  her,  and  to  do  this  had  to  recover 
his  own  good-humor  first.  As  soon  as  he  began  to 
make  this  effort,  the  situation  began  to  improve,  and 
not  long  afterwards  the  sun  of  their  content — the  sun 
that  always  shone  when  they  were  alone  together — 
burst  out  almost  as  brightly  as  though  it  had  never  been 
hidden  at  all.  And  presently  Jonah  might  have  been 
observed  to  be  driving  with  his  right  hand  altogether, 
finding  it  absolutely  necessary  apparently  to  slip  his 
left  arm  around  E.  Mintah's  waist,  doubtless  to  keep 
her  from  falling  out  of  the  buggy, — a  shackling  affair, 
certainly,  the  wheels  of  which  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
run  away  altogether,  curving  as  they  did  alarmingly 
outward  as  they  rattled  on,  under  the  peculiar  action 
of  Old  Hundred,  who,  head  down,  was  but  jogging 
along  in  his  sleep,  with  no  other  incentive  to  speed  than 
an  occasional  lazy  "  Glang !"  from  Jonah,  but  jogged  so 
decidedly  upward,  if  not  onward,  that  he  threatened 
momentarily  to  rend  the  conveyance  at  his  heels  limb 
from  limb.  Neither  of  the  young  people  behind  him 
gave  these  matters  a  single  thought.  Jonah  had  lit  his 
cigar  again.  If  any  tears  lingered  in  E.  Mintah's  eyes, 
they  were  only  made  the  brighter  by  them.  There  was 
no  restraint  now,  she  felt, — nothing  to  be  unhappy 
about, — and  she  abandoned  herself  completely  to  the  rare 
joys  of  freedom,  felicity,  and  finery.  Being  only  a 
woman,  this  last  was  no  inconsiderable  item  in  the 
delightful  total  of  her  satisfaction.  Was  she  not  wear- 
ing the  first  dress  she  had  ever  had  of  her  very  own, 
bought  for  her,  and  nobody  else ;  made  for  her,  and  no- 
body else?      Had  she  not  new  everything!      She  had 


106  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

once  in  ages  known  what  it  was  to  have  new  shoes  to 
wear  with  an  old  dress,  or  a  new  sun-bonnet  with  no 
shoes  at  all ;  but  to  have  dress  and  shoes  and  a  hat  and 
"  rumberella"  all  at  once,  and  all  given  to  her  by  her 
dear  Jonah,  was  almost  too  much,  and  but  for  the 
sobering  effect  of  the  quarrels  of  the  day  she  could  not 
have  carried  them  off  without  being  "  stuck-up,"  she 
knew.  It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  stand  such 
prosperity.  It  was  now  that  Jonah  told  her  all  about 
the  plans  and  arrangements  he  had  been  making  for 
the  day.  What  a  head  for  business!  What  a  pro- 
tector! What  a  lover!  He  admired  himself  unaffect- 
edly in  these  capacities,  but  he  could  not  do  it  as 
ardently  as  she  did. 

''  Oh,  Jonah,  how  good  you  are !  And  so  good-lookin' !" 
she  cried,  in  a  transport.  "  Them  clothes.  You  ivould?i't 
steal  'em !     Did  you  borrer  'em  ?" 

"  I  bought  'em, — every  blessed  rag,"  said  he,  proudly. 
''Do  I  look  good  in  'em?" 

"You  are  jes'  splendid!"  said  she, — "splendid!"  and 
worshipped  him  so  openly  that  he  was  moved  to  say, — 

"  You  look  fine  in  that  red  dress.  It  becomes  yer  sho' 
and  certain.  You  look  powerful  pretty,  R.  Mintah,  in 
it,  I  do  declare  !" 

"  Oh,  Jonah !"  she  said  again,  wnth  no  sort  of  regard 
for  originality  or  fear  of  tautology,  and  with  a  deep 
blush  of  gratification.  "  I  hope  I'm  fixed  up  to  suit 
you,  after  all  you've  went  and  done.  But  Jain't  nothin'. 
I  never  wuz.  You  are  the  one.  You  are  jes'  perfectly 
clcgunt !  I  never  see  nobody  like  you  in  all  my  born 
days." 

After  this  it  struck  them  as  expedient  that  the  top 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  107 

of  the  buggy  should  be  put  up  and  the  "  rumberella" 
lowered ;  and  as  a  veracious  chronicler  I  am  obliged  to 
say  that  in  the  course  of  this  transaction  it  somehow 
happened  that  the  buggy  gave  out  a  new  and  myster- 
ious sound, — was  it  a  creak,  or  squeak,  or  shriek  ?  I 
really  can't  say.  It  had  not  been  oiled  thoroughly  for 
about  ten  years,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  go  on 
forever  without  remonstrance.  "Whatever  it  was,  it 
must  have  startled  E,  Mintah  very  much,  for  she  cried 
out  "Oh,  Jonah!"  far  louder  than  she  had  done  at  all 
that  day. 

He  was  regarding  her  fondly  with  the  tender  possess- 
ive glance  of  the  lover,  when  quite  a  string  of  wagons 
and  carts  and  "rockaways"  passed  them.  The  picnic 
had  swept  everything  before  it,  and  scarcely  at  Fair 
time  were  more  vehicles  to  be  seen.  The  elect  ladies 
and  the  Baptist  minister  even  had  turned  out,  and  E. 
Mintah  shrank  back  in  her  corner  under  their  inquiring 
gaze,  shyly  ashamed  of  her  abnormal  splendor  and  her 
position  as  "Jonah  Newman's  sweetheart,"  glad  to 
screen  herself  partially  from  view  behind  the  hood  of 
the  buggy. 

But  Jonah  sat  up  very  straight,  and,  with  his  hat  on 
one  side  of  his  head,  and  that  head  set  at  a  determined 
angle  on  the  other,  his  feet  firmly  planted  against  the 
dashboard,  and  his  elbows  well  squared,  roared  out  im- 
pudently, "  G'lang!  g'lang !"  and  lashed  at  Old  Hundred 
in  a  way  that  made  that  respectable  family  horse  launch 
out  in  a  perfectly  unprecedented  gallop,  and  commit  the 
indecorum  of  carrying  the  laity,  as  represented  by  the 
lovers,  far  ahead  of  the  church, — indeed,  of  everything 
on  the  road.    The  minister,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  com- 


108  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

mitting  dust  to  dust  on  the  "  pike,"  always,  as  well  as  at 
the  funerals  of  his  followers,  was  naturally  indignant  at 
such  "impudence,"  and  prophesied  darkly  of  Jonah's 
future.  E.  Mintah  was  quite  as  much  scandalized.  She 
had  been  obliged  to  hold  her  hat  on  with  her  hand  until 
the  pace  slackened,  and  she  then  said,  "Jonah,  you 
ain't  ought  to  er  done  that.  What  got  into  you,  any- 
ways?" To  which  he  replied,  "I  ain't  goin'  to  let  no 
livin'  creature  pass  me  on  the  road  to  day,  E.  Mintah. 
No,  sir'ee,  Bob !" 

He  forgot  all  about  this  resolve,  however,  as  was 
shown  later;  at  least  he  got  so  absorbed  in  singing  w^ith 
E.  Mintah  "  There  was  an  old  man  came  over  the  sea," 
and  "My  darling  Nellie  Gray,  they  have  taken  you 
away,"  and  a  number  of  other  delightful  ballads  and 
hymns,  that  the  whole  party  he  had  left  behind  grad- 
ually crept  up  on  him  again,  and  finally  passed  him  in 
their  turn  with  anything  but  friendly  feelings  or  glances. 
However,  one  of  the  lovers  at  least  was  not  one  whit 
abashed,  and  presently  both  fell  to  carolling  again. 
How  they  ever  got  to  the  station  in  time  for  their  train 
I  don't  know.  They  did  not  arrive  until  the  last  mo- 
ment ;  and  ^vhen  little  E.  Mintah,  who  had  never  been 
on  a  railway  journey  in  her  life,  saw  the  bold  wa}'  in 
which  Jonah  went  up  to  the  mysterious  peep-hole,  from 
which  she  had  supposed  that  the  authorities  were  recon- 
noitering  the  "crowd"  to  see  that  they  took  nothing 
away  as  souvenirs  of  travel, — such  as  a  handsome  stove, 
or  an  elegant  ice-cooler,  for  instance, — and  behaved  them- 
selves generally  with  propriety, — when,  I  say,  she  saw 
Jonah  march  up  and  hail  the  awful  personage  there  with 
"Hello,  Mister!     Give  me  two  showin's  fur  Harper's 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  109 

Ferry,"  and  was  then  guided  safely  through  the  awful 
perils  and  confusion  of  the  place  to  a  beautiful  red  velvet 
seat  in  the  car,  is  it  any  wonder  that  he  seemed  to  her  as 
omnipotent  and  magnificent  as  Jove  ?  She  was  lost  in 
admiration  of  him  for  some  time  afterwards.  How  tall, 
and  big,  and  strong  he  was!  How  "smart"  and  gifted 
in  every  way!  What  savoir-faire  I  AYhat  knowledge 
of  the  world !  If  Jonah  had  been  Captain  Cook  or  Dr. 
Livingstone,  he  could  not  have  seemed  a  greater 
traveller.  Why,  he  even  knew  how  to  manage  the 
springs  of  the  shutter  and  the  window.  There  wasn't 
anything  that  Jonah  didn't  know.  When  he  put  up 
the  window  for  her,  saying,  "  Set  there,  honey,  where 
you'll  git  the  wind,"  and  poured  three  over-ripe  bananas 
and  an  orange  into  her  lap,  and  bought  a  newspa^^er  to 
read  when  they  should  have  started,  he  seemed  so  posi- 
tively majestic  in  his  largesse  and  usage  de  monde  that 
she  felt  for  a  moment  quite  mournful  over  it,  and  re- 
called Mother  Newman's  speech,  "  She  ain't  fit  fur  you, 
and  she  knows  it,"  with  a  sad  assent.  These  doubts 
assailed  her  while  Jonah  was  off  talking  to  some  of  his 
friends  at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  When  he  came 
back,  she  had  carefully  spread  a  large  handkerchief  on 
the  seat  to  protect  the  red  velvet  from  any  possible 
injury  it  could  receive  by  coming  in  contact  with  her 
dress, — the  very  dress  she  had  thought  so  superb  that 
morning, — and,  having  settled  herself,  was  toying  rather 
nervously  with  her  "  rumberella."  "Here!  Give  me 
that,"  he  said,  in  his  masterful  way,  when  he  came  back, 
and  put  it  in  the  rack  above  her  head.  Good  gracious  ! 
Who  could  have  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  "  that 
there  place"  being  meant  for  such  a  purpose  ? 

10 


110  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

'•'  Will  I  git  yer  some  water  ?"  he  asked,  and  went  off; 
and  she  could  see  him  go  to  the  cooler  and  turn  the 
cock,  and  lo!  water  in  abundance,  a  glass  of  which  was 
brought  to  her.  "Lawsakes!"  she  could  but  ejaculate, 
and  then,  "Jonah,  you're  a  wonderment!"  after  which 
the  train  started,  and  she  gave  a  little  scream  of  terror. 
A  very  little  scream  ;  but  Jonah  said  "  Hesh  up  !"  in  an 
agitated,  almost  cross  way ;  and  she  was  getting  more 
and  more  gloomy,  not  to  say  decidedly  unhappy,  when 
Jonah  repentantly  took  her  hand,  put  a  large  fig  in  his 
own  mouth  and  a  small  one  in  hers,  and  whispered, 
"Bully,  ain't  it?  Ain't  you  glad  you  come?"  crossed 
his  legs,  and  gave  himself  up  to  spelling  out  a  charming 
advertisement  of  St.  Jacob's  oil.  The  car  was  very 
crowded,  and  while  Jonah  was  absorbed  in  the  pursuit 
of  light  literature  of  a  beneficent  tendency  E.  Mintah 
looked  about  her.  It  was  reassuring  in  the  strange, 
not  to  say  awful,  situation  in  which  she  found  herself 
to  see  so  many  neighbors  and  familiar  faces, — friends 
she  would  have  called  them  in  the  warmth  of  her  own 
friendly  heart.  Belle  Poddly  and  Gus  Jones  were  up 
in  front  holding  hands  and  chewing  gum ;  and  how  any 
girl  could  marry  Gus  Jones  R.  Mintah  couldn't  see. 
And  Tim  White  and  Jinny  had  made  themselves  com- 
fortable in  the  next  seat.  And  the  Potters  were  trying 
to  look  as  though  they  didn't  belong  to  the  party  at  all 
(for  the  conductor's  benefit)  ;  and  John  Culbert,  not  get- 
ting a  seat,  had  perched  on  the  coal-box  and  begun  on 
the  hard-boiled  eggs  already-.  The  minister  was  reading 
a  report  of  a  late  conference  at  Zanesville,  Ohio,  and 
looked  as  though  he  would  give  out  a  text  and  preach 
a  sermon  then  and  there  for  two  cents.     Jim  Wilkins, 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  HI 

who  sat  just  in  front  and  had  taken  off  his  coat  and 
hung  it  up  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  car,  seemed  in  ex- 
cellent spirits,  and  twinkled  all  over  whenever  he  looked 
across  at  his  wife,  who  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  other 
side  of  the  aisle,  and  wore  not  only  an  air  of  oifended 
dignity,  but  a  bonnet  with  a  huge  ram-like  front-piece 
to  it  which,  like  the  beaked  ships  of  the  Greeks,  was 
not  without  value  as  showing  which  way  she  was  mov- 
ing. Without  it,  there  would  have  been  no  saying  with 
any  degree  of  certainty  whether  one  was  getting  a  front 
or  back  view  of  Mrs.  Wilkins,  so  non-committal,  Hmp, 
and  stayless  was  that  admirable  woman's  figure.  With 
it,  society  and  the  family  seemed  as  safe  as  female  vir- 
tue and  courage  could  make  them;  and  as  she  min- 
istered constantly  and  conscientiously,  albeit  somewhat 
sternly,  to  the  wants  of  her  five  children,  not  even  the 
mother  of  the  G-racchi  could  have  presented  a  finer 
spectacle  of  moral  excellence  and  domestic  intrepidity. 
R.  Mintah  was  not  sorry  that  Alfred  Shore  and  Matilda 
were  as  far  from  her  as  they  could  get.  She  wished 
them  farther,  indeed  ;  but  seeing  them  reminded  her  of 
another  member  of  the  ISTcwman  family.  "  Oh,  poor 
Mandy !  poor  Mandy !"  she  said  to  Jonah.  "  Her  heart 
must  be  most  broke,  and  no  wonder.  Never  will  she 
see  the  like  of  this  agin.  If  I'd  uv  knowed  what  it 
would  be,  it  would  er  jes'  killed  me  to  be  kep'  at  home, 
Jonah.     It  certainly  would." 

The  wonderful  journey  got  more  wonderful  to  R. 
Mintah  with  every  mile.  The  way  in  which  everything 
galloped  by  the  windows,  the  false  starts  and  backings, 
the  puffings  and  snortings,  the  bridges,  the  towns,  the 
quantities   of  people   everywhere   idling  and  talking, 


112  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

filled  her  mind  with  delightful  excitement.  The  con- 
ductor was  a  great  trial  and  terror  to  her  with  his 
abrupt  demands  for  "tickets,"  and  his  generally  authori- 
tative air.  But  what  a  comfort  to  see  and  feel  that 
Jonah  was  a  match  for  him.  "  Will  he  let  us  git  off 
when  it's  time?"  she  whispered  to  Jonah  as  they  rolled 
into  the  Ferry ;  and  she  thanked  him  humbly  from  her 
very  heart  when  he  not  only  permitted  her  this  privilege, 
but  actually  helped  her  down  the  steps  of  the  car,  say- 
ing to  him,  "  I'm  mightily  'bleeged  to  you,  sir.  I 
certainly  am."  Another  train  coming  from  the  opposite 
direction  had  just  got  in,  as  it  happened,  and  the  pas- 
sengers, of  course,  had  their  heads  out  of  the  window 
staring  at  the  picnic  party,  who  stared  at  them  in  re- 
turn. Suddenly  a  lively  uproar  was  heard  near  one  of 
the  carriages.  Cries  of  "  Great  Scott !"  and  "  Hello  !" 
and  "  Howdy  I  Howdy !"  were  repeated  in  various 
voices,  variously  pitched,  and  then  a  loud  "  Well,  I'm 
blowed  ef  it  ain't  Al  Shore's  Pa-ap !"  followed  by  "  Git 
out! — git  right  out!  We  are  all  here.  Git  out,  man, 
I  say,"  the  last  speaker  being  Jim  Wilkins.  The 
lookers-on  within  the  car,  and  without  on  the  platform, 
all  saw  a  gaunt  old  man  seize  his  bundle,  slowly  descend 
to  earth,  and  fall  feebly  on  Mr.  Wilkins's  breast,  but 
only  a  few  of  them  heard  his  "  I've  come  home,  Jim, — 
come  home  to  stay  while  I  live."  John  Shore  it  was, — 
"  Al's  Pa-ap." 

"  That's  right.  You  done  jes'  right,"  said  Mr.  Wilkins, 
aflPected  by  the  changed  appearance  of  his  old  friend 
and  comrade.  "  You've  got  tired  sharp-shootin'  'round 
in  the  bushes,  and  you've  come  back  to  camp,  you 
cornfounded  old  Johnny  Reb,  you  !     Whur's  Al  ?     Al's 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  II3 

'round  here  somewhur's.  He'll  be  powerful  glad  to  see 
you.  We  are  all  powerful  glad  to  see  you."  With  this 
he  put  an  arm  around  his  friend,  and  half  guided,  half 
supported  him  to  a  seat  on  a  bench  near  the  station, 
while  a  rumor  sprang  up  promptly  in  their  wake  that 
"  Al  Shore's  Pa-ap  had  done  come  home  to  die."  John 
Shore  had  been  very  ill.  He  was  still  miserably  weak, 
and  the  sight  of  Jim's  familiar  face  and  the  sound  of 
his  speech  was  too  much  for  him  for  the  moment.  He 
could  not  say  a  word,  so  Jim  talked  for  both.  "  Been 
sick,  ain't  you  ?"  he  said.  "  Look  like  you  was  just  out 
of  the  horspital,  and  the  doctors  had  been  a-practysin' 
on  yer  cornstant.  You're  powerful  weak,  ain't  you? 
But  you'll  git  all  right,  old  fellow.  Here !  you  want  some 
Dutch  spunk,  you  do."  A  flat  black  bottle  was  pro- 
duced from  Mr.  Wilkins's  pocket  containing  the  par- 
ticular kind  of  courage  that  he  believed  to  be  needed, 
a  dose  of  which  was  immediately  administered;  and 
while  it  is  taking  effect  a  question  can  be  answered 
which  is  being  put  on  all  sides  by  relatives,  friends,  and 
strangers  :  "  What's  he  doin'  here?" 

Is  every  mountain  a  magnet,  I  wonder,  that  collect- 
ively they  have  such  strange  power  to  hold  and  rivet 
to  themselves,  as  it  were,  the  man  born  and  reared 
among  them,  so  that  he  clings  to  them  when  he  has 
long  ceased  to  care  for  anything  else,  carries  them  for- 
ever in  his  soul,  grieves  when  separated  from  them,  and 
is  drawn  back  to  them  from  the  ends  of  the  earth? 
What  is  the  source  of  that  passionate  attachment,  that 
mysterious  sympathy,  which  makes  a  sturdy,  hard-fisted 
Swiss  peasant  —  beer-drinking,  kraut-eating,  money- 
loving,  unspeakably  prosaic— actually  die  of  hehnweh, 
h  10* 


114  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

while  Italians,  natives  of  the  enchanting  land  that 
"  strangers  ne'er  forget,"  vend  their  oranges,  grind  hand- 
organs,  sell  white  mice  comfortably  and  contentedly  all 
over  the  world  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  ?  Whatever  the 
feeling  is,  it  seized  upon  John  Shore  when  the  itching 
sole  had  carried  him  over  three  States  in  the  various 
capacities  of  blacksmith,  teamster,  and  miner;  and  it 
was  as  much  as  he  could  do  not  to  jump  out  of  the 
sick-bed  on  which  he  was  stretched  in  Louisiana  and 
plunge  through  every  obstacle  of  swamp  and  river 
and  morass  that  intervened  between  him  and  the  Blue 
Ridge  when  the  impulse  came,  so  fresh  and  powerful 
was  it  after  an  absence  of  twelve  years.  Such  weary 
3'ears  as  they  had  been  of  wandering,  and  hope  deferred, 
and  at  last  of  utter  defeat !  In  an  unusually  pronounced 
fit  of  disgust  he  had  left  home  with  the  intention  of 
never  returning,  and  had  gone  out  to  the  Pacific  coast, 
relying  confidently,  in  his  usual  sanguine  fashion,  upon 
that  large  investment  of  hopes  that  yields  commonly 
such  small  returns  of  anything  except  keen  disappoint- 
ment known  as  "  prospectin'."  From  there  he  had  drifted 
back  again  as  far  as  Missouri,  and  then  down  the  river 
to  Louisiana.  But  go  where  he  would,  good  luck  had 
never  thrown  her  old  shoe  after  him,  and  he  had  only 
grown  older,  and  poorer,  and  feebler,  and  more  discon- 
tented with  each  remove.  His  discontent  was  not  with 
his  circumstances  alone,  but  with  himself  Ho  felt  that 
he  had  been  going  steadily  from  bad  to  worse  in  more 
ways  than  one ;  and  when  he  found  himself  lying  in  a 
deserted  hut  on  the  borders  of  Lake  Pontchartrain,  and 
heard  a  mocking-bird  singing  outside  the  door  like  the 
ghost  of  the  sweet  songsters  that  used  to  trill  about  the 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  115 

cottage  in  the  days  when  he  was  a  better  and  happier 
man,  he  did  not  think  of  himself  as  a  martyr  at  all,  but 
only  as  a  most  miserable  and  wretched  old  man. 

"I  ain't  fit  to  live,"  he  groaned  to  himself;  "  and  ef  I 
was  to  die  here  I  couldn't  even  be  buried,  seeing  it  ain't 
a  country.  It's  nothing  but  a  swamp,  and  you  can't  dig 
down  two  feet  without  strikin'  water.  I'll  go  home  as 
soon  as  I  can  crawl.  I  ain't  heerd  from  Al  for  three 
years  now, — not  sence  I  asked  him  to  send  me  a  little 
money.  And  I  ain't  wrote.  But  he'll  take  me  in. 
Onst  I  git  among  the  mountains  I'll  feel  different, — I'll 
do  different."  And  so  it  came  about  that  John  Shore 
coming  home,  met  home,  as  it  were,  coming  to  him,  and 
if  he  greatly  surprised  the  Mountain  he  was  no  less  sur- 
prised by  it  in  his  turn. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  any  idea  of  the  extent  to 
which  Alfred  Shore's  eyes  extended  when  he  beheld  the 
unlooked-for  spectacle  of  a  prodigal  parent  seated  on 
that  bench.  He  stood  stock-still  to  stare  for  fully  a 
moment.  Then  he  looked  uneasily  over  his  shoulder  to 
see  if  Matilda  was  there,  his  father  regarding  him  the 
while  with  a  glow  at  his  heart  that  prevented  his  feel- 
ing the  chill  of  his  reception  for  the  time.  Alfred,  taking 
in  the  gaunt  and  grizzled  aspect,  and  the  look  of  weak- 
ness and  weariness,  hesitated  no  longer,  but  advanced. 
The  two  men  shook  hands.  "  Howdy,  Pa-ap  ;  howdy  ? 
How  do  you  do  ?"  said  Alfred.  "  Set  still  where  you 
are.  Don't  git  up."  He  betrayed  his  nervousness  by 
the  rapidity  with  which  he  spoke.  His  honest,  moony 
face  was  visibly  clouded.  He  looked  behind  him  again, 
and  added,  "  Mighty  glad  to  see  you."  Again  he  looked 
behind  him  and  shifted  his  weight  from  the  right  foot 


116  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

to  the  left,  colored  high,  put  his  arms  akimbo,  and  added 
another  sentence  to  his  speech  of  welcome :  "  Folks  is 

a-returnin'  back  now.     Pretty  season  fur "    Matilda 

now  joined  him.  He  had  seen  disgust  and  amazement 
painted  so  clearly  in  her  face  when  he  had  first  consulted 
it,  that  he  was  not  prepared  to  see  her  step  up  to  his 
father,  shake  hands  civilly,  and  even  smile  in  a  cheerless, 
constrained  fashion  as  she  received  him.  His  face  bright- 
ened. "  That's  right,  Tildy  !  That's  right,"  he  called 
out  eagerly  from  the  background  in  the  tone  we  use 
with  children,  his  voice  rising  on  the  last  syllable  of  her 
name.  "  Shake  hands  for  Howdy,  Tildy.  Shake  hands 
with  Pa-ap." 

Matilda  had  taken  a  little  time  to  consider  what  she 
should  do.  Was  the  cottage  and  f\xrm  Alfred's  property 
now,  or  his  father's  ?  Should  it  be  peace,  or  war?  She 
decided  that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  commit  herself 
irrevocably  to  the  latter  until  she  could  find  out  where 
she  stood. 

"  Children,  your  poor  old  pap's  come  home  never  to 
go  way  no  more,"  began  John  Shore,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  feeling  that  there  was  something  that  ho 
did  not  understand  in  both  faces.  Ho  had  no  chance  to 
say  more ;  for  Jinny  AVhite  now  bustled  ui^  in  a  state  of 
the  highest  excitement,  and  beginning  with  a  "Well, 
John  Shore!  Fur  comin'  back  alive  when  you're 
knowed  to  be  dead,  and  fur  comin'  back  most  dead 
when  you're  knowed  to  be  alive,  you  arc  the  beatenest 
man  or  stiff, — call  yourself  what  you're  a  mind  to, — 
John,  as  ever  Tve  seed  or  heerd  tell  on."  On  she  rat- 
tled at  a  rate  of  speed  that  defied  competition,  or  even 
interruption,  and  produced  a  feeling  of  desperation  in 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  117 

the  course  of  half  an  hour  in  John  Shore's  mind  such 
as  his  many  misfortunes  had  very  seldom  generated. 
Excessive  talkativeness  not  being  recognized  in  America, 
as  it  is  in  China,  as  a  perfectly  legitimate  cause  for  di- 
vorce, there  would  have  been  nothing  for  it  if  Jinny 
had  ever  carried  out  a  certain  plan  of  hers,  except  for 
John  to  have  gratified  both  her  and  himself  by  sinking 
finally,  definitely,  and  unmistakably  into  the  silent 
tomb.  He  felt  this  very  strongly.  He  was  also  grate- 
ful for  the  immense  kindness  and  good-will  that  she 
had  apparently  kept  for  him.  "  A  good  woman, — Jinny," 
he  thought,  when  she  finally  left  him ;  "and  maybe  she 
suits  Tim,  who  might  be  took  for  deef,  easy,  and  pass 
fur  dumb  anywheres.  She  sorter  tickles  him  like,  I 
reckon,  and  keeps  him  awake;  but  she'd  harrow  any 
other  man  up  turrible.  She  makes  me  feel  like  my 
head  was  a  shot-box,  and  she  was  doin'  the  shakin', 
and  doin'  it  lively!  She'd  er  driv  me  clean,  plum, 
ravin',  howlin',  tearin',  shootin'  crazy',  certain,  would 
Jinny  Hodges." 


118  BEUIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


lY. 

*'  You  sunburnt  sicklemen  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow  and  be  merry. 
Make  holiday  ;  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing." — Tempest. 

"Acts  which  Deity  supreme  doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in." — 
Keats. 

The  picnic  had  put  everybody  in  such  broad  holiday 
humor  that  even  John  Shore  was  the  gainer  by  it.  There 
was  a  general  disposition  for  the  time  being  to  let  by- 
gones be  by-gones,  and  how  his  heart  did  warm  to  find 
himself  kindly  received  where  he  had  thought  at  best 
to  be  only  tolerated.  He  was  taken  possession  of  by  the 
party,  went  with  them  to  the  "  pleasurin'  ground,"  and 
although  not  able  to  take  a  very  active  part  in  the 
ensuing  festivities,  enjoyed  his  role  of  spectator  won- 
derfully. His  mercurial  temperament  responded  sensi- 
tively to  his  surroundings,  and,  shaking  off  the  sadness 
that  had  so  oppressed  him,  ho  entered,  in  sympathy  at 
least,  into  all  that  went  on,  and  surprised  himself  by 
the  rebound.  He  had  felt  humbled  to  the  point  of  en- 
during patiently  any  slights  that  might  be  put  upon 
him ;  the  relief  of  feeling  that  he  would  not  be  called 
upon  to  endure  them  was  very  great. 

When  he  was  comfortably  established  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  in  the  shadiest,  pleasantest  spot  that  Jim 
Wilkins  could  find,  his  mind  reverted  to  the  expression 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  119 

on  the  faces  of  Alfred  and  Matilda  that  had  puzzled 
him.  And  when  Alfred  joined  him,  after  a  bit,  the  first 
thing  that  Pa-ap,  the  philosopher,  said  to  him,  although 
he  was  not  "  a  fool  by  heavenly  compulsion"  at  all,  but  a 
clever  and  even  keen-sighted  person  enough  when  his 
own  interests  were  not  at  stake,  was,  "  Set  down  here, 
Al.  I  dunno  what  you  are  carryin'  on  your  mind.  But 
ef  so  be  as  it  might  happen  to  be  concernin'  me,  I  want 
to  tell  you  one  thing.  That  paper  I  give  you, — 
you've  got  it  yet,  ain't  yer?" 

"Yes,  Pa-ap — leastways,  Matilda,  she's  got  it,"  said 
Alfred.  His  tone  was  embarrassed,  and  even  slightly 
aggrieved.  He  had  no  more  imagination  than  one  of 
his  own  turnips,  and  his  father's  eccentricities  had 
always  annoyed  him.  Why  could  he  not  either  go 
away  once  for  all,  or  stay  at  home  ?  A  gift  was  a  gift ; 
and  his  conduct  was  gratuitous, — as  much  so  as  though 
he  had  come  back  from  another  world,  almost.  The 
thought  of  restitution  had  been  trying  to  form  itself  in 
the  dim  recesses  of  his  mental  apparatus ;  but  as  soon 
as  it  became  visible  he  felt  it  and  himself  taken  by  the 
throat,  as  it  were,  by  Matilda,  and  not  even  his  favorite 
"  Whur  there's  a  way  in,  there's  a  way  out"  seemed  to 
shed  any  light  on  the  peculiarly  perplexing  situation. 
"What  '11  become  uv  us  ef  Pa-ap  takes  it  back?"  was 
one  facet  of  the  problem.  "  What  '11  become  uv  him  ef 
he  don't?"  was  another.  "  What  '11  become  uv  me,  no 
matter  which  er  way  they  settle  it?"  was  the  third, 
and  not  the  least  distressing,  so  miserably  certain  was 
he  of  the  approach  of  the  storm  that  his  soul  abhorred. 
The  whole  question  had  been  preying  upon  him  ever 
since  he  had  seen  his  father  on  that  bench  at  the  station. 


120  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

But,  with  the  dumb,  inexpressive  goodness  and  loyalty 
of  his  nature,  he  had  reached  one  conclusion  and  deter- 
mination to  which  he  could  not  have  been  helped  by 
the  most  brilliant  and  logical  intellect.  "He's  my 
father.  He's  come  home.  I  won't  turn  agin  him,  no 
way  they  fix  it.  Tildy's  raj  wife.  I'll  do  all  I  kin  to 
please  lier^  and  live  kind  with  her,  too." 

The  expression  of  his  face  and  the  sudden  heighten- 
ing of  its  ruddy  tints  told  his  father  that  he  had  touched 
the  discordant  note.  He  looked  at  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  "  I  might  take  back,  I  reckon " 

"  Don't  tell  Tildy  that,"  gasped  Alfred,  turning  almost 
purple.     "I'll— I'll  tell  her." 

"  But  I  won't,"  he  concluded.  "  Don't  feel  bad  'bout 
that  paper.  I  don't  want  nothin'  back.  I  wouldn't 
tech  it.  But  I'm  broke  down.  I'm  gittin'  on  fur  an 
ole  man.  I  reckon  you  can  give  me  what  I  want — it's 
mighty  little — while  I'm  'bove  ground.  No  I  I  don't 
want  nothin'  back." 

Alfred  couldn't  get  any  redder  than  he  was  already ; 
but  his  emotion  was  violent,  and  he  got  pale  instead, 
at  least  for  him,  and  said,  eagerly,  "Don't  you  tell 
Tildy  that  now.  Don't  you,  Pa-ap.  I'll  tell  her.  She'd 
— she'd  like  better  to  be  told  by  me." 

"  All  right,  Al.  Jes'  as  you're  a  mind  to  have  it," 
agreed  the  father.    "  I  thought  never  to  come  back " 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  never,"  thought  Alfred,  and  re- 
membering how  he  was  placed,  the  sentiment  as  well 
as  the  construction  of  this  sentence  may  surely  be  for- 
given him. 

"  But  I  had  to  come.  Something  drawed  me  like," 
John  Shore  went  on, — "  I  couldn't  stay  'way.     And  ef 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  121 

you'll  believe  me,  my  son,  I  dreamed  uv  your  mother's 
grave  four  times  runnin'  plain  as  ever  I  seed  it, — plain 
as  I  see  you  settin'  there.  You  ain't — you  don't — you 
wouldn't  turn  me  out  ?"  It  was  monstrous  to  a  man 
of  his  frank  and  generous  character  to  think  such  a 
doubt  for  a  moment,  much  less  express  it,  and,  feeling 
ashamed  of  having  done  so,  he  added,  quickly,  "I  know 
you  wouldn't ;"  but  to  Alfred  it  seemed  a  natural  enough 
precaution  to  take,  and,  intei'preting  it  as  a  personal 
and  searching  appeal,  he  first  ran  his  hands  wildly 
through  his  hair  in  the  energetic  intensity  of  his  feel- 
ings, and  then,  ramming  them  deep  in  his  pockets,  af- 
firmed, decidedly,  "  ]N"o,  Pa-ap !  I  sez  '  ]N'o.'  And  I  sez 
'  J^o'  agin.  And  I  takes  my  stand  right  there."  It  had 
been  a  long  while  since  Alfred  had  known  such  ex- 
hausting inward  and  outward  experience,  and  he  now 
relapsed  into  a  serious  and  semi-comatose  state,  in  which 
he  remained  until  his  services  were  required  to  unpack 
the  lunch-baskets, — an  occupation  to  which  he  betook 
himself  with  a  heart  still  burdened  by  anxieties  and 
misgivings,  but  no  longer  in  suspense.  He  was  able  to 
give  himself  up  heartily  to  this  important  matter. 
"  Good  eatin'  is  a  mighty  good  thing,"  was  a  stock  sen- 
tence of  his,  and  he  considered  himself  a  judge  of  it. 
He  was  privately  quite  of  the  opinion  of  one  of  the 
"Wilkins  boys,  who  wandered  about  fretfully  all  morn- 
ing asking  "when  the  picnic  would  begin,"  meaning 
the  great  feast  of  the  day.  And  it  was  he  who  labored 
patiently  and  untiringly  over  that  feature  of  the  out- 
ing without  getting  the  smallest  thanks  or  recognition 
from  anybody,  or  even  a  tithe  of  the  delicacies  pro- 
vided, unless  certain  wings,  and  drumsticks,  and  bits 
F  11 


122  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

of  broken  bread,  and  odd  slices  of  tart  that  remained, 
over  and  above,  when  all  had  eaten,  and  that  had  to  be 
disposed  of  somehow,  could  be  so  regarded.  On  these, 
at  any  rate,  he  dined,  and  then  fell  to  repacking,  and 
wrapping,  and  the  searching  of  missing  spoons,  and 
washing  of  plates,  as  if  hired  expressly  for  the  purpose; 
Matilda  presiding,  but  not  helping,  and  taking  occasion 
to  ask  him  whether  he  had  "questioned  of  Pa-ap  yet," 
to  which  this  Machiavellian  Alfred  artfully  replied,  sig- 
nificantly, "  We  won't  say  nothin'  to  him  'less  he  says 
somethin'  to  us,  ef  we've  got  a  grain  of  sense,  Tildy." 

Such  a  day  as  it  was  altogether !  For  the  elect  ladies, 
who  sat  apart  in  elegant  seclusion  some  distance  from 
the  others,  with  their  huge  hampers  about  them,  and 
indulged  in  the  most  "  genteel"  conversations  and  occu- 
pations imaginable,  and  were  inexpressibly  shocked  and 
disgusted  by  nearly  all  that  they  saw,  and  had  the  min- 
ister to  dine  with  them,  and  were  not  at  all  dull, — oh, 
no !  For  Mrs.  Wilkins,  who  positively  declined  to  do 
anything  that  anybody  else  did,  and  would  not  eat  any- 
thing, and  steadily  refused  to  be  happy  or  comfortable, 
and  finally  strode  off  into  the  woods  "  to  look  for  yarbs," 
she  said,  and  would  not  so  much  as  look  in  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Wilkins  all  day,  but  mounted  guard  sternly  over 
her  children.  For  Zach  Hodges,  Jinny's  brother, — a 
grave,  lantern-jawed,  one-suspendered  person  of  settled 
habits, — who  soon  despised  himself  for  having  supposed 
that  he  could  "  fool  around"  for  a  whole  day,  and  finally, 
in  sheer  desperation,  walked  a  mile  down  the  river, 
where  he  had  seen  some  men  cutting  and  stacking 
wood  for  the  railroad,  and  lent  a  hand,  and  so  killed  the 
only  holiday  he  had  ever  taken.     For  Mr.  Newman's 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  123 

hated  foe,  Jack  Culbert,  who  had  a  passion  for  fishing, 
and  found  a  secluded,  leaf-shadowed,  sun-flecked  pool 
at  a  bend  of  the  Potomac,  and  caught  bass  after  bass 
unvexed  of  neighbors  or  lawyers.  For  Jo  Snod- 
grass,  the  greatest  glutton  on  the  mountain,  who 
fell  asleep  after  making  a  dinner  that  ought  to  have 
killed  him,  and  waked  again  only  to  tackle  half  a 
chicken,  a  pot  of  quince  preserves,  and  the  quarter  of 
a  jelly-cake.  (Little  Wilkins's  idea  of  a  picnic  seemed 
practically  that  of  the  whole  company,  and  the  amount 
of  food  consumed  by  old  and  young  would  never  be 
believed;  just  as  an  inventory  of  what  was  put  into  the 
pockets  alone  of  the  party  to  stay  the  ravages  of  appe- 
tites that  seemed  absolutely  sharpened  by  such  uncon- 
sidered trifles  as  three  enormous  meals,  and  course  after 
course  of  intermediate  eggs,  figs,  raisins,  candies,  oranges, 
apples,  etc.,  would  never  be  credited,  either.)  And  what 
a  day — ah,  loliat  a  day  for  E.  Mintah !  For  did  not 
she.  and  Jonah  walk  along  the  tow-path  hand  in  hand 
for  hours,  sucking  sweetly,  and  with  absolute  fairness, 
at  three  oranges  (one  at  a  time,  and  turn  and  turn 
about),  getting  more  out  of  them  than  ever  was  got  out 
of  the  golden  fruit  of  Hesperides  ?  And  did  they  not 
stop  at  the  lock  and  see  a  boat  glide  through  ?  And 
did  they  not  go  on  board  and  explore  it,  and  marvel 
over  it,  and  talk  to  the  people  in  charge  of  it,  and  find 
it  a  thousand  times  more  curious  and  interesting  than 
some  people  would  the  Great  Eastern  ?  And  did  they 
not  talk,  talk,  talk,  and  laugh,  laugh,  laugh?  And  did 
they  not  suddenly  remember  that  they  had  been  gone 
for  hours  and  hours,  and  hurry  back  to  join  the  others? 
And  perhaps  they  were  not  hailed  from  afar  with  a  loud 


124  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

shout,  and  amiably  twitted  and  joked  until  E.  Mintah, 
as  red  as  her  dress  almost,  shrank  as  far  into  herself  as 
she  could  possibly  get,  and  Jonah  angrily  seized  the 
''genteel"  Gus  Jones  by  the  shoulder  and  spun  him 
around  like  a  top,  saying,  "  Shet  up !  Let  it  drop  I 
Enough's  a  plenty  any  time,  and  I've  had  enough !  D'ye 
hear?" — a  command  he  was  fain  to  obey  sulkily,  al- 
though he  had  just  been  declaring  that  he  would  "run 
Jonah  high  on  that  there  thing." 

They  Avere  all  soon  most  amicably  and  agreeably  en- 
gaged, however,  in  eating  and  swinging,  in  swinging 
and  eating,  in  playing  games  and  eating,  talking  and 
eating,  flirting  and  eating,  singing  and  eating,  while 
the  elder  folk  sat  around  on  stumps  and  logs,  and  looked 
glumly  indifferent,  or  scornful,  or  amused,  as  the  case 
might  be. 

"When  it  came  to  "  Here  we  go  'round  the  mulberry 
bush,"  the  fun  became  perfectly  uproarious,  and  as 
often  as  Jonah  knelt  in  the  middle  of  the  ring  he  in- 
variably marched  over  to  the  spot  where  E.  Mintah 
stood,  took  her  hand,  led  her  proudly  to  the  centre  of 
the  ring,  made  her  kneel  down,  and  with  a  detonation 
as  of  a  pocket-pistol  "  saluted"  her, — that  is,  the  tip  of 
her  ear,  or  her  hair,  or  at  best  her  cheek,  as  she 
modestly  thwarted  his  purpose  by  slipping  to  the  right 
or  left,  her  ej^es  as  bright  as  stars  and  her  cheeks  in  a 
flame.  Other  swains  followed  his  example,  and  solemnl}'- 
and  simply  led  forth  other  nymphs  who  did  not  follow 
hers,  but  seemed  as  stolid  under  the  pocket-pistol 
process  as  though  it  had  been  an  application  of  court- 
plaster  applied  by  an  elderly  physician,  and  having 
squarely  taken  what  was  squarely  off'ered,  returned  to 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  125 

their  places  without  a  smile.  But  not  so  was  it  with 
Miss  Belle  Podley.  Anything  like  the  vivacity  and 
coquetry  of  that  young  person  throughout  the  whole 
excursion  had  never  been  seen.  The  pertinence  and 
the  impertinence  of  her  lively  sallies  had  kept  all  the 
company  amused,  and  more  than  once  won  a  chastened 
smile  from  the  minister  himself  Her  briskness,  her 
good-humor,  and  her  good  looks,  added  to  the  well- 
known  fact  that  she  was  to  have  a  farm  of  seventy- 
five  acres,  made  her  quite  irresistible  in  some  quarters. 
All  the  young  men  were  quite  wild  about  her,  and 
if,  instead  of  being  what  was  known  as  "  a  bouncer" 
on  the  Mountain  (i.e.,  a  big,  jolly,  "  peart,"  hand- 
some girl,  with  a  joke  for  everybody,  equally  ready 
with  tongue  or  fist, — capable,  active,  saucy,  bold,  but 
never  bad),  she  had  been  a  Belgravian  or  Fifth-Avenue 
belle,  she  could  not  have  more  perfectly  understood  the 
art  of  drawing  them  all  on  and  holding  them  all  off. 
So  when  it  came  her  turn  to  take  advantage  of  the 
mulberry  bush,  and  choose  a  partner,  it  was  a  sight  to 
see  her.  Eapidly  striking  the  hands  of  three  of  her 
admirers,  she  dived  under  the  encompassing  arms  of  the 
circle,  and  picking  up  her  encumbering  skirts,  flew, 
rather  than  ran,  ofP,  and  around,  and  about,  and  up,  and 
down,  and  here,  and  there,  the  three  men  in  eager  but 
unsuccessful  pursuit,  until  at  last  she  dashed  back  again, 
having  dodged,  eluded,  and  outrun  them  all,  and,  joining 
the  circle,  was,  according  to  the  rules,  safe  from  further 
pursuit.  Tossing  back  her  magnificent  auburn  locks, 
she  laughed,  and  jeered,  and  pantingly  flouted  them  : 
"  Oh,  you  can  git  over  the  ground  as  fast  as  any  tarry- 
pin,  can't  you  ?     That's  right !    Hurry  up,  Gus.    You'll 

11* 


126  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

git  here  after  while,  like  Christmas.  There  ain't  a  man 
on  the  Mountain  as  '11  catch  me." 

She  was  so  impudent  and  audacious  that  even  Jonah 
took  fire.  "  I'll  show  yer  'bout  that,  Belle,  ef  I  git  a 
chance,"  he  cried,  and  so  a  little  later  she,  nothing  loath, 
gave  him  the  chance.  But  either  she  was  tired  from 
the  previous  chase  or  she  was  not  unwilling  that  it 
should  end  differently.  She  declared  that  it  was  the 
first.  K.  Mintah  was  sure  that  it  was  the  last,  for  was 
it  not  notorious  that  Belle  admired  Jonah?  It  is 
certain  that  after  a  short  run  Jonah  caught  her,  and, 
moreover,  to  E.  Mintah's  amazement  and  disgust,  he 
kissed  her!  Whereupon  Belle  bridled,  and  minced, 
and  giggled  more  than  ever,  and  became  so  utterly- 
fascinating  that  the  luckless  three  were  reduced  to  senti- 
mental pulp  and  darkest  despair,  while  poor  little  K. 
Mintah  sat  apart  and  suffered  the  bitter  pains  and 
penalties  of  o'er  true  and  tender  love. 

It  was  then  that  John  Shore,  looking  on,  asked  Jim 
Wilkins,  "Who  is  that  pretty  young  thing  yonder?" 

"  Belle  Podley  ?"  inquired  Jim. 

"  No  /"  said  John,  impatiently.  "  The  little  one,  just 
beginning  to  tassel — like."  On  being  told,  he  called  E. 
Mintah  to  him,  and  got  no  small  pleasure  from  renew- 
ing his*  acquaintance  with  her.  He  talked  so  kindly 
to  her,  indeed,  that  she  almost  forgot  for  the  moment 
that  Jonah  was  false  and  Belle  wicked,  and  life  value- 
less in  consequence.  Belle  had  got  up  a  game  of  blind- 
man's-buff  now,  but  Jonah  had  slunk  out  of  it,  and 
would  have  come  straight  back  to  E.  Mintah,  now  that 
his  momentary  divertisement  was  over,  had  he  not  seen 
that  she  was  offended.     "  To  pleasure  you,  E.  Mintah," 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  127 

said  John,  noticing  the  young  girl's  desolate  look, 
"  my  mocking-bird  shall  sing,"  and  uncovering  a  cage 
he  revealed  a  stout-bodied,  sober-plumaged  bird,  with 
a  calm,  intellectual  eye  and  an  impudently  cocked  tail. 
"ISTow,  Bureegyard,"  said  John,  "show  'em  what  you 
can  do,"  and  began  to  whistle  encouragingly.  For 
some  moments  the  bird  eyed  the  company  in  gen- 
eral and  John  in  particular  with  a  scornful,  imperious 
air  of  disapproving  scrutiny,  and  then  without  warn- 
ing opened  his  huge  mouth  and  poured  out  strains 
so  rich  and  brilliant  and  varied  that  every  one  was 
attracted,  and  Jim  Wilkins  insisted  on  knowing  "  What 
kind  of  a  sort  of  a  varmint  is  that  varmint  er  your'n, 
John,  anyways?"  A  little  crowd  of  people  gathered 
about  the  cage  to  see  and  hear  the  wonderful  songster. 
"  I  got  him  in  Loosyana,"  explained  John,  "  and  he's  a 
first-rater,  and  a  tip-topper,  Jim,  I  tell  you!  The 
beatenest  bird  ever  Jheerd,  or  you  either.  I'm  a-teachin' 
of  him  'Dixie,'  and  I'm  a-teachin'  of  him  'Yankee 
Doodle,'  to  be  fair  and  square  all  'round,  and  when  he's 
a  mind  ter  he  can  sing  'em  both  as  good  as  the  next 
one.  But  ef  he  ain't,  you  kain't  git  a  note  out  of  him, 
not  ef  you  was  to  roast  the  gizzard  in  him  by  a  slow 
fire.  He's  game,  is  Bureegyard,  shore,  and  no  mule 
kain't  beat  him  fur  obstinacy ;  but  I'm  bent  and  deter- 
minated on  him  learnin'  them  two  things,  and  we  are 
goin'  to  fight  it  out  on  this  line,  ez  Grant  said,  ef  it  takes 
us  all  summer.  He's  dared  me  to  kill  him,  with  his  eye, 
over  and  over  agin,  when  he's  got  tired  of  bein'  learnt, 
'n  I've  been  mad  enough  ter,  and  I  would,  too,  efhe'd  of 
been  all.  But  I  couldn't  git  my  consentment  to  killiu' 
all  that  music  in  the  cussed  little  critter's  breast." 


128  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

''Well,  hit's  the  astoiiishin'est  bird  ever  I  see.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  but  what  you  could  git  five  dollars 
fur  him,"  said  Alfred. 

"I  wouldn't  take  five  hundred,"  his  father  replied. 
"Me  and  him's  mighty  good  company  mostly.  Who's 
talkin'  of  sellin'  ?  No,  sir ;  me  and  Bureegyard  goes 
together,  and  ain't  to  be  bought  nor  sold  seperate. 
Curous,  ain't  it,  what  a  heap  uv  songs  he've  got?  I 
sets  and  studies  sometimes  'bout  the  fust  bird,  and 
wonder  what  he  was  like,  and  wish  I  could  er  heerd 
him." 

"Fust  bird?  What  fust  bird's  you  talkin'  'bout?" 
inquired  Alfred,  thoroughly  puzzled. 

"  Why,  there  must  some  time  or  nuther  uv  been  a  fust 
bird.  Everything  had  got  to  begin  at  the  offstart  uv 
all,  Al.     Don't  you  see  so  yourself?"  said  the  father. 

"  I  dunno  know  nothin'  'bout  no  fust  birds,  nor  no 
fust  nothing,  Pa-ap,"  replied  Alfred.  "  And  my  advise- 
ment to  you  is  not  to  go  talking  to  nobody  'bout  no 
sech  fiddlesticks  'n  foolishments,  'less  you  want  to  be 
thought  simple." 

Jonah  now  came  up  and  would  have  liked  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  E.  Mintah's  evident  interest  in  the  now  silent 
songster  to  make  friends  again,  but  she  continued  to  turn 
her  back  on  him  and  affected  not  to  hear  any  of  his  re- 
marks, although  she  had  known  that  he  was  there,  and 
why  he  was  there,  long  before  she  turned  her  head  and 
saw  him.  Her  Jonah  to  kiss  Belle  Podlcy  !  Oh  !  it  was 
shameful,  utterly  unpardonable,  and  most  miserable! 
Even  her  beautiful  red  dress  looked  faded  and  hideous 
in  the  sickly  light  of  such  a  sorrow,  and  she  seemed  to 
stiffen  in  it  until  her  supple  little  figure  got  a  look  of 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  129 

positive  petrifaction,  as  outraged  love  worked  griev- 
ously within  her  pure  and  tender  heart  and  clamored 
for  expression,  only  to  be  rigidly  suppressed.  Jonah 
saw  it,  and,  big  as  he  was,  trembled  before,  or,  rather, 
behind  her, — not  that  he  felt  particularly  guilty,  but 
because  he  saw  that  he  had  hurt  what  he  loved, — and 
knowing  that  it  was  not  in  her  to  complain  or  reproach 
him  he  felt  her  to  be  only  the  more  unapproachable  in 
her  gentle  dignity. 

"'Pears  like  you  ain't  enj'yin'  yerself,  E.  Mintah," 
said  John  Shore,  kindly. 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  never  come.  I  wish  I  was  home. 
I  hate  picnics,"  she  replied,  passionately. 

Was  this  the  day  that  she  had  so  long  looked  forward 
to, — the  day  that  had  been  so  sweet  in  the  buggy  and 
along  the  tow-path  when  there  had  been  only  she  and 
Jonah,  and  the  rippling  river,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
flowers,  and  no  Belle  Podley  existed  at  all  ? 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  which  she  was  deter- 
mined should  not  fall,  and  seeing  them,  John  said, 
briskly,  "I  tell  yer,  honey,  yer  sorter  moped-like. 
Yer  want  a  dance.  Whur's  everybody?  There's  a 
right  smart  chance  uv  boys  and  girls  here,  and  you  shell 
all  have  a  dance.  Go  call  'em, — you  tell  'em,  Jonah, — 
while  I  chune  up.     Tell  'em  to  come  here." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  liveliest  version  of  "  Miss  Mc- 
Leod"  was  ringing  out,  and  such  a  turf-dance  as  fol- 
lowed must  have  surprised  even  the  river,  accustomed 
as  it  was  to  the  eccentricities  of  excursionists.  Such 
leaping,  and  bounding,  and  jigging,  and  revolving  were 
never  seen  there  before.  The  idea  had  been  enthusi- 
astically welcomed  on  all  sides,  and  not  only  the  boys 


130  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

and  girls,  but  many  men  and  matrons,  had  seized  each 
other  and  the  opportunity  to  "  have  a  fling,"  as  they 
phrased  it.  It  was  a  long  dance,  and  John  played  his 
best,  for  he  knew  that  he  could  only  play  that  one ;  and 
I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  before  the  long 
scrape  of  the  bow  which  marked  "  finale,"  and  which 
John  always  gave  with  his  head  very  much  on  one  side 
and  his  elbow  most  impressively  squared,  Jonah  and 
K.  Mintah  had  "  made  up."  How  Jonah  managed  it  I 
have  no  idea.  The  dance  did  it,  perhaps.  At  least  he 
put  his  arm  around  E.  Mintah  and  whirled  her  off  be- 
fore she  could  remonstrate,  and  then  homoeopathic  treat- 
ment was  tried, — a  kiss  for  a  kiss, — and  at  last  expla- 
nation. 

*'  I  'lowed  to  ketch  her,"  said  Jonah. 

"  But  what  made  yer  kiss  her  ?"  asked  E.  Mintah. 

"I  dunno.  I  can't  rightly  say,"  replied  Jonah,  not 
without  embarrassment.  "  She  sorter  dared  me  and  I 
upped  and  done  it,"  he  added,  using  the  argument  of 
the  soldier,  that  Jim  Wilkins  was  fond  of  telling  about, 
who  stole  a  sheep  because  "  it  bit  him,  and  he  warn't 
the  man  to  let  no  sheep  that  ever  was  bite  him." 

"  Jonah,"  said  E.  Mintah,  gravely,  "  ef  you  like  her 
more  'n  me,  say  so,  and  take  back  your  word  to  me.     I 

ain't  never  been  good  enough  fur  you.     Belle "  she 

choked  somehow,  and  slipped  off  the  dearest  and  most 
beautiful  ring  in  the  world  before  he  could  prevent  it 
and  laid  it  in  his  enormous  palm. 

"  Hold  on !  Quit,  E.  Mintah !"  cried  Jonah.  "  What 
did  you  do  that  fur  ?  Don't  yer  know  I  wouldn't  give 
your  old  shoe  fur  a  ten-acre  lot  er  hollerin',  bellerin', 
bouncin'  gurls  like  that  there  Belle  Podley?" 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  131 

Oh,  Jonah,  Jonah !  Belle  had  a  loud  voice,  and  was 
standing  at  that  moment  with  her  arms  akimbo  shriek- 
ing and  laughing  in  a  way  that  was  not  pleasant.  But 
"  bellerin' !"  She  is  not  without  her  own  saucy  charm, 
and  you  know  it. 

""What  did  yer  kiss  her  for  then,  Jonah?"  asked  E. 
Mintah,  picking  out  the  weak  spot  in  his  defence  as 
well  as  Ballantyne,  Q.  C,  or  Chief-Justice  Taney  could 
have  done. 

"I  done  told  you  that  I  dunno,"  reiterated  Jonah, 
rather  sulkily.  "  It  was  all  jes'  funnin'  and  foolishness, 
that's  what ;  I  don't  care  nothin'  'bout  her  at  all.  Don't 
think  no  more  about  it.  You  are  the  one  I  want,"  etc., 
etc. 

After  this  they  had  to  go  for  another  walk,  of  course, 
to  say  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  in  nearly  the 
same  words.  The  dancers  went  their  way  also,  John 
Shore  was  joined  by  his  old  friend  Jim  Wilkins,  who 
was  shaking  with  good-natured  laughter :  "  I  ain't 
shook  a  foot  sence  we  boys  used  to  cut  up  didos  in 
camp,"  he  said,  "  and  I  thought  I'd  skirmish  'round  a 
little  with  Jinny  "White,  but  I've  got  too  much  to  carry. 
Ouf!" 

"  "Well,  set  down  here  by  me,  Jim,  and  tell  me  'bout 
yerself, — all  yer  been  doin',"  said  John  Shore,  making 
room  for  him. 

"  AU  right,  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Wilkins.  When  he  had 
recovered  breath,  he  settled  himself  comfortably  and 
began  :  "  Well,  John,  there  ain't  much  happened  to  call 
happenin's,  skasely,  most  uv  the  time  sence  you  went 
away.  I've  lived  right  along  here  mostly,  and  been 
well  and  done  well.     I've  traded  'round  every  which  er 


132  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

way,  and  done  mighty  well  lumpin'  this  and  that.  I'm 
wuth  five  thousand  dollars  this  minute.  You  wouldn't 
think  it  to  look  at  my  clothes,  now,  would  you  ?  but  I 
am.  I  dunno  myself  how  I  got  it,  but  the  mill  done 
most  of  it." 

"  I've  seed  you  with  a  bed-quilt  fur  a  coat,  and  no 
shoes  on  your  feet,  and  your  head  plum  through  your 
hat,  Jim." 

"  That's  so !  You  have,  John,"  said  Mr.  AVilkins, 
laughing,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  friend's  knee. 
"And  I've  seed  you  mighty  ready  to  creep  under  that 
there  bed-quilt  at  night !  and  with  carpet-rags  tied  on 
your  old  hoofs ;  yes,  sir,  and  no  hat  at  all,  'less  it  was 
the  skillet  you'd  stuck  on  top  uv  your  head.  Ha  !  ha ! 
ha !  We  warn't  travellin'  on  our  style  much  them  days, 
wuz  we,  John?  Great  Scott!  how  you  did  look  the 
mornin'  we  fell  back  from  Second  Manassas.  You 
scared  the  crows  all  out  the  country,  John.  Ha!  ha! 
ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"  En  all  the  buzzards  took  after  you,  Jim,  which  was 
worse." 

"Well!  ef  ever  you  want  a  coat  or  a  hat  agin,  John, 
you'll  know  whur  to  come,"  said  Jim  Wilkins,  impress- 
ively, when  their  joint  laughter  had  died  away. 

"  Thanky  kindly,  Jim.  I'd  say  the  same  ef  I  had 
anything  anybody  wanted  ;  which  I  ain't." 

"  Well,  maybe  your  reserves  '11  come  up  after  while 
and  you'll  win  the  next  fight,  John.  Don't  you  go 
a-gittin'  too  down  on  your  luck,  and  stickin'  up  no  white 
flag.  The  bottom  rail  gits  on  top  when  you  least  looks 
to  see  it  in  peace  times  like  in  war  times.  You  know 
that.     You  remember  that  time  at  Snicker's  Gap  when 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  133 

we  thought  we  had  the  Yankees  penned  up  so's  they 
couldn't  git  out  no  way  at  all,  'less  the  bottom  fell  out 
of  the  tub,  and  how  they  run  us  plum  out  uv  the  coun- 
try and  used  us  up  entirely  ?  We  didn't  feel  any  too 
good  when  we  was  lyin'  flat  up  agin  that  fence  that 
night  we  crope  like  snakes  into  the  yard  of  that  big 
white  house  jes'  this  side  uv  Glasstown,  and  laid  in  the 
shadow  there  listenin'  to  the  Yankee  sentinels  chal- 
lengin'  each  other  not  twenty  feet  away.  Did  we, 
John  ?" 

"And  how  we  did  wriggle  out  of  that  when  they 
was  changed.  That  was  about  the  tightest  place  ever 
we  got  in,  warn't  it,  Jim  ?" 

"  You  made  pretty  good  time  considerin'  you  wuz  on 
all-fours,  John.  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  (A  pause.)  ''  John,  ef 
you  ever  get  in  a  pinch,  and  want  a  little  money,  do 
you  come  right  to  me.  D'ye  hear?"  (Confidentially. 
Another  pause.)  "  Yes,  that  was  a  mighty  nigh  thing, — 
a  mighty  nigh  thing." 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  that  skirmish  on  Hog  Creek 
was  as  bad,  Jim.  Ef  Stuart's  men  hadn't  uv  come  up 
jes'  when  they  did,  I  tell  you  we'd  er  been  eat  right  up, 
— eat  right  up  befo'  we  know'd  what  done  it." 

"  That's  so.  That  was  the  nighest  fur  me  shore  and 
certain,  John,  fur  it  was  there  you " 

"  Say  no  more,  Jim ;  I  warn't  thinkin'  uv  that  part." 

"  But  Im  a  thinkin'  of  it.  I  ain't  never  got  done 
thinkin'  of  it,  and  ain't  never  goin'  to.  ]S"o.  John,  ef 
ever  you  want  anything  I  can  give  yer  and  don't  come 
to  me,  I'll  blow  your  old  brains  out  fur  you,  as  sure  as 
my  name's  Jim  Wilkins,  see  ef  I  don't,  you  miserable 
old  bushwhacker,  you!" 

12 


134  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  I've  got  that  picter  you  give  me  when  I  went  away 
yet,  and  many's  the  time  I've  looked  at  it,  Jim.  Hit 
was  sorter  encouragin'  'way  off  there.  And  the  Lord 
knows  I  needed  encouragin'." 

"  Have  you  ?     Let's  have  a  look." 

John  Shore  got  out  his  greasy  leather  case  and  pro- 
duced the  yellow  envelope.  His  old  comrade  put  an 
arm  around  his  neck  and  together  they  inspected  it. 

"  That's  the  way  he  looked  when  I  seed  him  that 
day  at  Port  Royal,"  said  Jim. 

"Yes,  hit's  got  the  look  of  him  'bout  the  eyes  and 
forred  pretty  good.  But  no  picter  couldn't  be  7nade 
that  'd  git  all  uv  him,  Jim.  We'll  never  see  nobody  like 
him  agin  in  this  world,  not  ef  we  wuz  to  live  to  be  a 
thousand." 

"That's  so,  John.  That's  so.  We  never  will.  I'd 
give  a  good  deal  to  see  him  come  ridin'  down  the  lines 
in  that  old  uniform  of  his'n,  takin'  off  that  old  hat — 
sorter  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  it  was  always — when 
he  heerd  the  boys  cheerin'  him  !  Wouldn't  you,  John  ? 
That  uniform  wasn't  near  as  good  as  our  quarter- 
master's,— nothin'  like.  You  couldn't  er  told  him  from 
nobody  else, — me  or  you." 

"  Yes,  you  could,  Jim,  too.  Me  and  you !  You  could 
er  told  him  from  everybody  else.  Picked  him  out  uv  a 
whole  army.  Well,  I  reckon  he's  in  heaven  now.  He 
'lowed  to  go  there,  and  it's  none  too  good  fur  him." 

"  Yes,  he  wanted  to  go  to  heaven,  and  you  may  jest 
bet  he's  gone  there,  John.  And  I  tell  yer  ef  he'd 
er  wanted  to  go  to  hell,  there  ain't  sperrits  enough 
there,  long  as  the  devil's  been  enlistin',  to  keep  old  Blue 
Light  out!"  said  Jim,  with  conviction. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  135 

When  the  pocket-hook  was  ahout  to  he  replaced,  Mr. 
"Wilkins  seized  it,  saying,  ''  Let  me  fix  that."  He  walked 
off  a  short  distance,  got  out  his  penknife,  operated  suc- 
cessfully on  a  certain  spot  in  his  coat  where  he  carried 
his  savings  (carefully  stitched  there  by  himself  in  con- 
sequence of  his  rooted  distrust  of  all  confidants  and 
cashiers),  and  got  out  a  five-dollar  bill,  which  he  put  in 
his  friend's  book  along  with  the  picture,  securing  the 
whole  with  a  stout  rubber  band  which  he  took  from  his 
own,  and  giving  it  back  to  John  Shore  without  a  word. 

"Yes,  them  was  times  when  you  wuz  alive,  ef  so  be 
as  you  wuz  alive,"  said  Shore,  taking  the  book  mechan- 
ically and  replacing  it.  "  I  wish  I  could  live  through 
'em  agin  sometimes,  hard  as  some  of  it  was.  But  it's 
different  with  you,  Jim.  You  must  have  pretty  nigh 
as  good  a  time  as  can  be  had.  I'm  right  down  glad  to 
hear  you've  done  so  well.  You  was  a-tellin'  me  how  it 
was." 

"Yes.  As  I  was  a-sayin'.  After  I  got  the  mill  I 
made  money,  John.  Befo'  that  it  was  slow  work.  I 
prospered  steady,  but  I  never  was  one  to  blow  'bout  my 
business.  I  kep'  a  still  tongue,  and  done  well,  and 
salted  down  what  I  made,  and  done  better  and  better. 
And  I  was  gittin'  ready  to  fix  to  build  a  new  house, — 
sorter  settlin'  down  in  my  tracks,  and  takin'  things 
easy,  and  fixin'  to  enjoy  myself,  when,  all  of  a  sudden, 
the  old  woman  took  a  notion, — the  blamedest  notion  ! — 
and  spiled  everything.  'Twas  to  pull  up  stakes  and 
move  out  to  Californy !  You  see  she  had  two  brothers 
out  there,  and  they  kep'  on  writin'  to  her  and  put  it  in 
her  head.  I  thought  she'd  gone  plum  crazy  when  she 
fust  talked  'bout  it.     It  did  'pear  like  it.     'Break  up 


136  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

here,'  I  sez  to  her,  '  whur  I've  got  a  home,  and  a  good 
business,  and  go  balloonin'  out  yonder  the  other  side  er 
nowhere?'  But  Californy  was  the  greatest  place  that 
ever  was.  Everybody  made  big  fortunes  there  befo' 
they  could  turn  'round.  The  grapes  there  wuz  as  big 
as  peaches,  and  the  peaches  wuz  as  big  as  potatoes, 
and  the  potatoes  bigger  'n  pumkins,  and  the  pumkins 
as  big  as  all  out-doors.  The  very  chickens  hadn't  no 
feathers  to  pick  off,  and  was  already  cooked  when  you 
was  hungry.  You  couldn't  be  poor  out  there  ef  you 
got  burnt  out  twict  a  week  and  lost  all  you  had.  Every 
boy  got  to  be  governor  of  the  State,  and  every  girl 
married  a  rich  man.  Californy  was  heaven.  Everything 
was  better  there  than  nowhere  else.  You've  heerd  that 
kind  er  talk,  John  ?" 

John  Shore  nodded,  and  said,  "And  I've  been  fool 
enough  to  believe  some  of  it,  too." 

"  Well,  my  wife  she  was  full  of  it.  At  fust  I  argyed 
the  thing  with  her,  like  a  Jack;  and,  of  course,  the 
more  I  argyed,  the  more  she  sot  her  mind  on  goin'. 
She  said  it  would  be  the  makin'  of  me  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  she  wanted  to  see  them  dear  brothers  of 
hern.  And  then  I  got  mad,  and  I  ain't  swore  sence 
Appomattox  like  I  did.  I  was  ashamed  uv  myself  good 
afterwards,  talkin'  that  way  to  a  woman.  And  she  was 
that  much  more  sot,  and  bent,  and  determinated.  And 
then  I  sulked  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head  for  awhile. 
And  that  done  no  good ;  she  got  sotter  every  day. 
You've  been  a  married  man,  John.  You  know  how  it 
is.  I  couldn't  bend,  and  I  couldn't  break  her,  and  I 
wouldn't  beat  her.  I  was  willin'  to  do  this,  and  I  was 
willin'  to  do  that, — anything  most  to  satisfy  her;  but 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  137 

she  wouldn't  be  satisfied  no  way  I  fixed  it  without  we 
broke  up  and  moved  to  Californy.  I  begged  and  prayed 
of  her,  even,  and  her  a  good  woman,  too, — says  her 
prayers  every  night,  and  reads  her  Bible  on  Sundays, 
and  never  took  off  her  clothes,  but  nursed  me  faithful 
night  and  day,  when  I  had  the  smallpox,  and  there 
ain't  never  been  a  better  mother  made,— but  she  never 
budged.  She  said  she  had  the  children  to  consider. 
You  remember  how  it  used  to  was,  John,  maybe." 

"  ISTo,  I  don't,  Jim.  I  hadn't  never  no  disagreements 
with  my  wife,"  said  John  Shore,  his  voice  softening  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Hum,  hum  !     She  died  young.     I  reklect  'bout  that, 
—she  died  mighty  young;'  said  Mr.  Wilkins,  reflectively. 
"Well,  John,   I    seed   how  'twould   be.      I've   rode   a 
goverment  mule  befo'  now.     So  I  knowed  it  warn't  no 
manner  nor  sort  of  use,  whatsomedever,  to  try  to  turn 
her  head  'round,  and  I'd  already  tried  her  with  blinkers 
and  'thout  blinkers,  tight  girth  and  loose  girth,  bare- 
backed and  saddled,  coaxed  and  driv,  and  spurred,  and 
it  wouldn't  work,  seein'  she'd  got  the  bit  between  her 
teeth,  and  wouldn't  go  my  way  ef  she  died  fur  it.     And 
I  know'd,  too— well,  you've  been  married,  John !    Hum ! 
— I  know'd  I'd  be  thro  wed  'gin  the  wall  and  hurt  had  ef 
I  didn't  stop  tryin' !     So  I  set  and  studied  and  studied 
over  that  thing  till  at  last  I  sez  to  myself,  'You  nateral- 
born  pulin'  igit !     Don't  yer  see !     This  here  thing  calls 
fur  tactics:      So  I  studied  more  'n  ever.     And  then  I 
goes  to  Blake,— one-eyed  Blake,  Fifth  Virginia  Cavalry, 
little  nubbin  of  a  man  with  a  red  head.     You  must 
shorely  disremember  him  ?      Limped  a  little ;   warn't 
nothin'  uv  a  soldier,— wouldn't  skeer  a  rabbit,— but  a 

12* 


138  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

square,  correct  fellow.  Yer  don't  say  now  that  you've 
forgot  Blake, — the  man  that  give  us  a  cup  of  hot  coffee 
the  mornin'  we  started  to  fall  back  from  Ashby's  Gap  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  know  now  who  you  are  talkin'  'bout. 
It  was  mighty  curous.  That  fellow  had  coffee  right 
straight  through  the  war,  from  fust  to  last!  And  him 
only  a  private.  How  he  got  it  the  Lord  only  knows. 
And  it  warn't  chicory,  nor  nothin'.  It  was  coffee.  That 
there  cup  of  coffee  was  'bout  the  best  thing  ever  I  put 
in  my  mouth  bcfo'  or  sence.  We'd  been  on  the  jump, 
you  remember,  fur  ten  days,  and  I  hadn't  had  no  sleep 
skasely  fur  three  nights,  and  it  was  'bout  all  I  could  do 
to  keep  from  fallin'  off  my  horse.  And  when  I  seed 
that  coffee-pot  I  thought  I  seed  the  New  Jerusalem. 
And  Blake  he  poured  me  out  a  big  tincupful,  and  I 
couldn't  stop  to  drink  it,  but  I  warn't  goin'  to  lose  nor 
leave  it,  not  ef  I  knowed  it.  So  I  called  to  Blake  to 
charge  the  cup  to  Uncle  Sam  and  rode  off.  And  my 
horse  would  stumble  a  bit  and  it  was  as  hot  as  fire,  and 
between  'em  I  got  scalded  right  smart,  and  spilt  some 
which  was  worse,  but  what  I  got  was  jes'  heaven  !  Oh, 
yes,  I  remember  Blake." 

"  I  thought  you  couldn't  er  forgot  him.  Well,  as  I 
was  a-tellin'  you,  I  went  to  him  and  give  him  the  wink, 
and  we  soon  fixed  it  up  between  us  fust-rate.  He  was 
to  have  the  house,  and  the  mill,  and  the  farm  fur  a 
year  free,  and  was  to  make  out  to  ev'ybod\'  like  he'd 
bought  it.  See?  Me  a-keepin'  of  it  all  the  time,  of 
cose.  See?  And  then  I  sez  to  the  ole  woman,  I  sez, 
'  I  don't  want  to  leave  my  home,  and  my  friends,  and 
all  I've  worked  so  hard  fur  ever  since  the  war,  and  go 
trapesin'  off  3'ondcr  so  fur  from  Yirginny,  but  I  see  you 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  139 

can't  be,  and  ain't  a-goin'  to  be,  happy  here  no  more,  so 
I  give  in,  and  you  kin  pack  up  and  we'll  strike  camp 
next  week  and  go  to  Californy.' 

"She  hadn't  never  'lowed  fur  me  to  give  in,  John, 
and  she  looked  mighty  solemn-like  when  she  heerd  me 
say  that, — sorter  like  she  did  the  day  we  got  married. 
And  then  she  hugged  and  kissed  me  good,  and  I  told 
her  I'd  sold  off  everything  and  was  doin'  that  thing 
teetotally  and  intirely  to  pleasure  her,  and  I  didn't  care 
a  red  cent  fur  the  resks  as  long  as  she  was  pleased. 
And  she  hugged  and  kissed  me  agin,  and  said  I  was  the 
bes'  husband  any  woman  ever  had  on  the  face  of  the 
yearth ;  and  I  felt  about  as  low  as  they're  made, — as 
mean  as  a  skunk.  I  couldn't  skasely  keep  from  tellin' 
her  the  truth.  But  I  know'd  I  was  actin'  right,  least- 
ways meanirC  right,  so  I  never  said  nothin',  and  it  was 
settled  that  er  way.  Have  a  chaw,  John  ?  This  is  the 
'  Farmer's  Friend.'  I  like  it  better  'n  any  of  'em.  Well, 
sir,  she  went  'round  the  house  mighty  quiet,  packin'  and 
sortin',  and  didn't  talk  none  hardly.  She  felt  bad,  and 
I  seed  it,  but  I  never  said  nothin'.  And  I  went  'round 
lookin'  like  'twas  all  I  could  do  not  to  bust  out  cryin'. 
Tactics,  John;  all  tactics!  And  when  she'd  kissed,  and 
cried,  and  tole  good-by  all  around  to  the  folks,  and  we'd 
got  on  the  train,  I  sez  to  her,  '  Look  here,  I  want  to  tell 
you  one  thing :  this  here  is  your  excursion,  Mrs.  Wil- 
kins.  It  ain't  my  excursion.  Ef  you  ain't  satisfied  in 
Californy,  don't  you  never  say  nothin'  to  me  'bout 
comin'  back, — that's  all, — 'cause  I  ain't  never  comin' 
back.'  She  promised  she  wouldn't,  and  I  seed  then  she 
was  skeered  had;  but  I  never  said  nothin'.  Tactics^ 
John.     See?"     Mr.  Wilkins  clapped  his  friend's  knee, 


140  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

and,  throwing  back  bis  bead,  laughed  loud  and  long, 
bis  meiTj  eyes  almost  disappearing  from  view.  He  was 
obliged  to  get  out  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  and  give 
vent  to  a  couple  of  trombone-like  snorts  before  he  could 
resume  his  story,  so  great  was  bis  own  enjoyment  of  it, 
and  then  he  wiped  his  wet  eyes  and  cheeks.  "  I  can't 
help  it,  John ;  I'm  jes'  obleeged  to  laugh  whenever  I 
think  uv  that  thing.  It  jes'  spurts  out.  I've  done  it  in 
church  befo'  now, — sniggered  right  out,  and  caught  Hail 
Columbia  fur  it  afterwards  from  the  ole  woman,  and 
laughed  wuss  'n  ever,  tell  I  w^uz  as  weak  as  a  new-born 
babe,  and  she  said  I  wuz  gittin'  ready  fur  the  'sylum  at 
Stanton.  But  as  I  started  to  tell  you.  We  travelled, 
and  travelled,  and  travelled,  tell  I  thought  we'd  passed 
all  creation.  And  the  country  kep'  on  gittin  flatter  and 
flatter.  There  warn't  a  mounting  to  be  seen  fur  hun- 
dreds uv  miles,  ef  you'll  believe  me,  and  an  uglier,  and 
a  browner,  and  a  more  burnt-up  country  I  never  seed, 
and  it  jes'  did  'pear  to  me  like  we  wuz  gittin'  to  the 
mouth  of  the  bad  place.  Howsomever,  we  did  git  to  that 
heaven  of  a  Californy  at  last,  and  met  up  with  her 
brothers,  and  I  bought  a  little  place  from  the  only  smart 
man  that  had  ever  been  out  there,  I  reckon,  for  he  wuz 
Icavin'  it  fust  chance  he  got,  and  we  started  in.  Well ! 
sech  a  country  as  that  was !  You  wouldn't  believe  it ! 
It  was  so  dry,  John,  fur  months  and  months  that  ever}-- 
thing  turned  to  powder,  and  then  it  turned  loose  and 
drownded  ev'j^thing  and  ev'ybody  out,  and  I  don't 
know  which  was  wust.  You  couldn't  raise  a  leaf  uv 
tobacco  to  save  your  life !  And  I  never  cat  a  beat-bis- 
cuit nor  had  a  mint-julip  while  I  wuz  there!  It  was 
the  most  God-forsaken  place, — the  jumpin'-off  place,  and 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  Ul 

no  mistake.  And  there  warn't  no  spring-house,  nor  no 
ice-house,  nor  no  smoke-house,  and  nobody  to  help  with 
the  work.  And  the  climate  warn't  anything  to  call  a 
climate,  and  the  ole  woman  got  mighty  sick  uv  it  in  a 
month,  but  she  was  'shamed  to  say  so.  I  pertended  / 
liked  it,  and  we  went  on.  In  'bout  three  months  she 
couldn't  hold  in  no  longer,  and  she  began  sayin'  she 
didn't  like  this  thing  and  that  thing.  And  I  didn't  take 
no  notice,  no  more  'n  ef  I  was  deef.  And  when  the 
rainy  season  come  she  got  droopy  and  miserable  as  a 
wet  chicken,  and  I  pertended  still  I  liked  it.  And  she 
said  she  never  seed  nothin'  of  her  brothers  'cause  they 
lived  a  good  piece  off,  and  wuz  always  too  busy  to  come 
to  see  nobody,  and  she  werrited  powerful  and  talked 
'bout  livin'  and  dyin'  'mong  strangers  all  the  time.  And 
I  said,  '  Oh,  this  is  Californy  !  We  ain't  goin'  to  die  ;  no- 
body don't  die  out  here ;  we  are  goin'  to  live  here  for 
the  next  fifty  years.  I'm  'bout  as  well  contented  as  I 
ever  'spect  to  be,'  and  she  was  so  furous  she  wouldn't 
speak  to  me  fur  a  week.  Tactics,  John.  See  ?  And 
we  went  on  fur  a  while,  and  the  harvest  was  so  poor  we 
didn't  make  nothin'  skasely.  But  I  lived  po',  and  was 
cheerful  all  the  time,  and  sez  to  her,  '  'Pears  to  me  we 
ain't  comin'  out  the  big  end  of  the  horn  fur  Californy^ 
the  land  of  plenty,  but  we're  here  now  and  we've  got 
to  stay.'  '  Why  don't  you  urrigate,  Jim  ?'  says  she  to 
me  mad-like,  and  I  tole  her  I  hadn't  got  the  money 
to  fool  away  on  'bout  fifty  miles  er  ditches.  I'd  heerd 
rain  had  been  plenty  in  Yirginny,  but  nothin'  couldn't 
be  helped.  And,  John,  what  did  that  woman  do  ?  She 
got  as  sweet  as  molasses-candy  that  minnit,  and  sez, 
'  Ef  you  ain't  content  here,  Jim,  I'll  go  back  to  Yirginny. 


142  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE, 

I  won't  stiiy  nowhurs  vvhiir  my  dear  husband  ain't  con- 
tented.' She  did  !  Women  are  'bout  the  smartest  things 
the  Lord  ever  made,  John.  But  I  seed  things  was 
workin',  and  I  know'd  I  had  the  reins  and  was  set  on 
drivin'  her  into  a  corner,  so  I  sez,  'Thank  yer  kindly, 
mother,  but  I'm  all  right.  I  don't  want  to  go  back. 
I'm  suited  out  here.  I  come  to  pleasure  you,  but  I'm 
goin'  to  stay  to  pleasure  myself.  The  crop  ain't  been 
good,  but  in  ten  years  or  so  maybe  I'll  be  able  to  urri- 
gate  and  we'll  do  better.'  That  beat  her.  She  got  as 
red  as  fire  and  wouldn't  eat  a  mite  that  day.  Well,  we 
Avent  on  that  way  for  a  while  agin,  and  then  all  to  oust 
she  broke  plum,  teetotally  down,  and  caved  in,  and  give 
up,  and  went  to  bed,  and  stayed  there,  and  cried  herself 
into  fits  'most.  And  when  I  sez  to  her,  '  What  in  the 
name  of  goodness  has  got  into  you  ?  AYhat's  the  matter 
w^th  you  anyways,  mother?'  what  do  you  think  she 
sez  to  me,  after  werritin'  and  devillin'  me  cornstant, 
and  never  lettin'  me  rest  tell  I  give  my  consent  to  goin' 
out  there?  She  sez,  '  What  did  you  ever  bring  me  and 
my  children  out  here  to  starve  and  die  fur  ?  I'll  die  ef 
you  keep  me  here.'  She  did !  And  she  meant  it,  too ! 
Well,  I  didn't  argy  that  time,  'n  I  didn't  make  no  fuss. 
I  seed  she  was  plum  beat  out  sho'  'nough  and  had  surren- 
dered, and  I  didn't  push  things.  I  jes'  said,  '  You  warn't 
satisfied  in  your  Yirginny  home,  and  you  ain't  satisfied 
in  your  Californy  heaven,  it  'pears.  But  I'm  still  willin' 
to  pleasure  you,  and  do  all  I  can  fur  to  make  you  happj^ ; 
80  stop  cryin',  and  I'll  horrer  the  money  and  take  you 
back  home  agin.'  And  she  set  up  in  bed  straight  and 
sez,  'Oh,  Jim,  Jim,  take  me  home!  take  me  home!'  sez 
she, '  and  I'll  break  rock  on  the  pike  for  a  livin'.    I'll  do 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  143 

anything !  I'll  thank  and  bless  yer  as  long  as  I've  got 
breath  in  my  body  I  I  hate  Californy  wuss  'n  pison!' 
/hadn't  to  borrer  no  money,  and  I  know'd  Blake's  time 
was  'most  out,  and  when  it  came  'round  we  lef .  You 
oughter  seed  the  ole  woman  !  She  could  have  danced  a 
jig  fur  joy,  settled  woman  that  she  is.  She  didn't 
care  no  more  than  nothin'  'bout  partin'  with  them  dear 
brothers  of  hern.  She  was  crazy-happy  ef  ever  a  crea- 
ture wuz." 

"  Yer  must  er  been  mighty  happy,  both  uv  you, 
comin'  back  together,"  said  John  Shore,  who  had  listened 
with  the  greatest  interest. 

"  "Well,  that's  as  you  may  call  it,  John,"  replied  Mr. 
Wilkins,  dubiously.  "  I  'lowed  it  would  be.  But  ef  you'll 
believe  me,  the  ole  woman  set  up  as  stiff  as  a  ramrod  all 
the  way  back,  and  wouldn't  have  nothin'  more  to  do 
with  me  than  ef  I'd  of  treated  her  the  wust  in  the  world 
all  through.  She  did !  And  she's  been  that  way  ever 
sence, — you've  noticed  her  to-day.     I  darsent  run  her. 

Not  fur  my  life!     But  when- 1  look  at  her  I "     Mr. 

"Wilkins  here  roared  afresh,  and  was  obliged  to  have  re- 
course again  to  his  handkerchief,  his  friend  joining 
heartily  in  his  outburst,  and  the  pair  rocking  them- 
selves backward  and  forward  in  an  ecstasy  of  amuse- 
ment for  some  moments.  "  Excuse  me,  John.  But  I'd 
bust  ef  I  didn't.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha  I  ha  I  I  made  a  big 
trouble  and  business  'bout  tradin'  with  Blake  to  git 
back  my  house  agin  (I  let  on,  now,  the  mill's  his'n),  and 
I  tell  you  she  was  glad  to  git  back  to  it !  She'll  never 
want  to  do  no  more  movin'.  She'll  think  twict  befo' 
she  has  any  differments  with  me.  She  snaps  at  me  like 
a  turtle  jes'  now.     But,  Lor!  I  don't  kyer.     I've  got 


144  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

the  bit  in  her  mouth,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  no  sawin' 
while  it's  sore.  And  it's  turned  out  all  right.  And  she's 
got  all  she  wants.  But,  John  Shore,  I  sez  now  what 
I've  always  said,  and  there  ain't  no  man  that  knows 
anything  'bout  'em  that  can  say  it  ain't  true,  'Women's 
like  war.  Sometimes  they're  a  scourge,  and  then  agin 
they're  a  blessin';  but  with  both  uv  'em  you've  jes^  got  to 
have  tactics.' " 

This  recital  had  consumed  a  good  deal  of  time.  The 
shadows  were  getting  long  on  the  grass  and  dark  over 
the  river,  and  the  party  began  to  reassemble.  It  was 
generally  conceded  that  the  united  forces  must  march 
on  the  station  at  once  if  their  train  was  to  be  caught. 
So  a  group  of  men,  dimly  visible,  sitting  on  logs,  smok- 
ing and  talking,  some  little  distance  off,  were  called,  the 
baskets  were  looked  to,  Miss  Belle  Pod  ley  (with  two 
young  men  beside  her  and  a  third  hanging  on  at  the 
back)  jumped  into  a  buggy,  the  omnibus  was  filled,  and 
soon  nothing  but  some  greasy  newspapers  and  empty 
tins  remained  to  tell  the  woods  that  they  had  been 
honored  by  a  distinguished  company.  And  I  fear  that 
if  the  river  could  have  had  its  way  it  would  have 
altered  its  course  and  swept  away  even  these  traces  of 
a  defiling  humanity. 

"  There's  little  Stebbins,"  said  Mr.  Wilkins.  "Howdy, 
Stebbins!"  as  they  emerged  from  the  omnibus  to  find 
their  train  just  arrived,  and  snorting  and  pufiing  im- 
patiently to  be  off  again.  "  You  remember  little  Steb- 
bins of  our  company, — '  Owl  Stebbins'  "  (to  John  Shore). 
"That's  him  on  the  ingine.  He  drives  the  ingine  on 
this  here  night  train  always.     Let's  go  speak  to  him." 

They  did  so,  and  Stebbins  was  very  friendly  and  in- 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  145 

vited  them  to  ride  with  him  and  have  a  talk  "  'bout  old 
times,"  if  they  wouldn't  find  it  "  on  comfortable." 

John  Shore  had  his  bird  and  packages,  but  he  got 
over  this  difficulty  by  giving  them  to  Jonah,  who 
promised  to  take  care  of  them, — a  promise  that  R. 
Mintah  fulfilled. 

This  settled,  he  and  Mr.  Wilkins  joined  their  friend, 
who,  having  wiped  away  the  perspiration  that  was 
blinding  him  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm,  and  hitched  up 
his  trowsers,  and  thrown  open  his  flannel  shirt  at  the 
throat  a  little,  offered  each  of  them  in  turn  a  hand 
hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  the  lumps  of  coal 
heaped  high  in  the  tender  behind  him,  and,  with  a 
hearty  grasp,  said  twice,  gravely,  "Howdy,  howdy!  I'm 
pleased  to  see  you,  gentlemen.  I  certainly  am.  Git  up 
thar,  at  the  back,  whur  j'ou'll  be  out  er  the  way,"  and 
would  have  apologized  for  the  inferior  character  of  the 
accommodations  he  was  able  to  offer.  Mr.  AYilkins, 
however,  cheerfully  remarked  that  he  had  "  rode"  in  his 
time  "  on  the  roof  of  the  kyars  and  on  the  cow-catcher, 
and  warn't  partikiler  so  long  as  he  warn't  rid  on  a  rail," 
and  so  won  upon  Mr.  Stebbins  by  his  brisk  and  cheerful 
demeanor  and  conversation  that,  solemn  as  he  was,  and 
the  strictest  of  strict  Baptists,  in  five  minutes  he  had 
grown  convivial  and  confidential,  so  moving  and  search- 
ing are  the  effects  of  old  ties  and  "  mountain  mist"  on 
the  most  reserved  natures.  The  train  now  moved 
slowly  out  into  the  darkness,  leaving  the  station  behind 
it  looming  large  and  indistinct,  and  jewelled  about  with 
the  lamps  of  the  trainmen.  Mr.  Stebbins  became  ab- 
sorbed again  for  a  time  in  his  professional  duties.  In 
the  second  car  Mrs.  Wilkins's  beaked  bonnet  brooded 
G       k  13 


146  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

above  three  children  Avho  had  fiillen  asleep.  And  Mr. 
Culbert,  also  dozing,  shuffled  his  feet  about  to  avoid 
coming  in  contact  with  the  large  string  of  fish  that 
flopped  about  them.  And  Belle  Podley  giggled,  and 
shrieked,  and  bridled,  and  minced,  and  arranged  her 
"  beau-catchers,"  and  wetted  her  red  lips,  and  tossed  her 
pretty  head,  and  played  at  being  shocked  and  offended, 
or  charmed,  as  the  case  might  be,  with  her  three 
admirers.  Mrs.  Williams,  senior,  was  talking  with 
Zach  Hodges,  and  agreeing  with  him  that  picnics  were 
failures :  "  I'd  as  lieve  grabble  for  taters,  and  liever, 
than  to  set  around  and  do  nothin'  all  day.  It's  about 
the  hardest  work  ever  I  tried  to  do,"  said  she.  And  E. 
Mintah,  with  her  head  on  Jonah's  shoulder,  and  love 
and  joy  again  restored  to  her  heart,  was  heaving  a  sigh 
of  deepest  satisfaction  that  was  not  satiation,  and  saying, 
"  Oh,  Jonah,  ain't  picnics  heavenly !  Ain't  it  been  beau- 
tiful !"  The  train  was  running  at  full  speed  in  a  little 
w^hile,  and  John  Shore  and  Jim  Wilkins,  seated  high  on 
the  tender,  exchanfred  remarks  with  the  fireman  and 
reminiscences  with  their  former  comrade  and  waxed 
jovial.  The  fireman,  so  Mr.  Stebbins  said,  was  an  old 
soldier,  too,  and  for  a  long  while  the  talk  was  altogether 
of  raids,  and  battles,  and  repulses,  and  victories,  with 
their  attendant  features  good  and  bad,  harrowing  or 
amusing. 

When  it  had  been  going  on  for  some  time,  Mr.  Steb- 
bins took  a  lantern,  and,  leaning  out,  waved  it  back  and 
forth  six  times.  "  I  live  up  yonder  'bout  half  a  mile 
away,"  he  explained.  "  That's  fur  my  wMfc.  She  looks 
out  regular  every  night  to  see  me  do  it.  She  can  see  it 
plain,  and  knows  I  am  all  right  then." 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  U7 

Fate,  which  had  certainly  not  dowered  Mr.  Stebbins 
with  the  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  nor  made  him  very  wise 
nor  very  great,  had  made  him  very  rich  in  a  devoted 
wife,  Avho  believed  him  to  be  all  this  and  much  more, 
and  had  then  perversely  so  arranged  matters  that  he 
was  nearly  all  the  time  away  from  her. 

"  I  got  a  good  home,  boys,"  he  explained  ;  "  and  ef  I 
could  jes'  stay  in  it  I'd  be  satisfied.  But  I'm  mostly  on 
the  road;  and  when  I'm  there  I'm  beat  out,  and  can't  do 
nothin'  but  sleep  'n  eat.  I  don't  hardly  know  mj  own 
children.  But  they've  got  a  fust-rate,  hard-workin', 
lovin',  pious  mother.  She's  a-bringin'  of  'em  up  correct, 
I  know, — better  'n  I  could, — and  it's  mighty  lucky,  I 
sez  so  to  myself  every  day,  for  I've  got  to  be  on  the 
go  all  the  whole  blessed  time.  She  sez  to  me  this 
mornin',  '  Father,  the  baby's  had  a  tooth  fur  a  month 
and  you  ain't  noticed  it.'  It  sorter  cut  her,  you  see, 
and  I  sez  to  her,  '  Carrie,  I  ain't  a  father  at  all.  I  ain't 
a  husband.  I  ain't  a  human.  I'm  nothin'  but  a  steam- 
ingine ;  and  when  I  think  of  the  life  I've  been  a-leadin' 
for  fifteen  year  and  better  it's  a  wonder  I  don't  bust  my 
biler  all  to  flinders  and  jump  the  track.'  'Well,  now, 
be  patient,'  sez  she  to  me.  '  It  '11  all  come  right,  I'm 
jes'  certain.  You'll  git  work  in  the  yard  in  a  year  or 
two,  and  then  you  kin  stay  at  home  all  you  want.' 
Yes,  I  run  this  here  locomotive  by  night  and  I  dream 
uv  it  by  day.  I  kain't  git  the  blamed  concern  out  'er 
my  mind  a  minnit ;  and  some  days  it  'pears  like  some- 
body was  lettin'  off  steam  in  my  head  cornstant,  and 
I  dunno  nothin',  and  I  kain't  sleep  a  wink,  and  I'm  jes' 
druv  plum  crazy.  And  Carrie  she  makes  me  lay  down, 
and  she  sends  the  children  all  off,  and  shets  up  the  house 


148  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

to  make  it  dark,  and  jes'  sets  by  me  without  savin'  a 
blessed  word  tell  I  feel  better.  En  then  she  always  sez, 
'  Be  patient,  father.  Keep  on  fur  a  while  and  things 
'11  git  better.  They're  bound  to  git  better.'  She's  got 
a  power  er  patience,  and  a  power  er  pra'r ;  and  pra'r  and 
patience  is  what  the  wife  uv  a  railroad  man's  got  to 
have,  ornless  she  'lows  to  go  ravin'  distracted." 

'•That's  so,"  said  Mr.  Vilkins.  "And  it  ain't  only 
them,  neither.  It's  pretty  much  all  wives  and  all  hus- 
bands. It  takes  a  power  er  patience  fur  any  man  to 
git  on  with  any  woman,  and  a  power  er  pra'r  fur  any 
woman  to  stand  any  man,  I  do  reckon.  The  best  man 
that  was  ever  made  ain't  none  so  good  but  what  he 
might  be  a  sight  better;  and  the  best  woman  that  ever 
stepped  's  got  it  in  her  to  make  Moses  rip  and  snort 
round  like  a  bull  hornin'  one  er  these  here  little  barkin' 
fice  dogs.     But  ef  a  man's  got  any  tactics " 

Mr.  Stebbins  might  possibly  have  heard  something  in 
this  connection  of  Mrs.  Wilkins's  famous  excursion;  but 
at  this  moment  he  opened  a  valve,  and  Mr.  Wilkins's 
voice  was  drowned  in  the  terrific  blare  of  sound  that 
followed. 

"  There  ain't  a  locomotive  on  the  road  like  26,"  said 
Mr.  Stebbins,  when  he  had  imprisoned  the  demon  again. 
"  Ef  I  could  take  things  easy  and  run  her  twict  in  the 
week,  I'd  ruther  do  it  than  be  President.  But  I  ain't 
no  owl"  (here  Mr.  Wilkins  and  John  Shore,  knowing 
that  he  was  ignorant  of  the  sobriquet  he  had  gained  in 
the  army,  could  not  help  laughing  a  little),  "and  owls 

couldn't  stand "    Here  he  found  his  services  required 

again,  and  broke  off;  then  resuming.  "  Carrie'd  feel  good 
ef  she  only  know'd  what  our  boss  said  to-day.    Sez  he  to 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  149 

me,  '  Stebbins,  you  look  bad ;'  and  I  sez  to  him,  '  Maybe 
I  do,  and  I  reckon  you  would,  too,  ef  you'd  run  a  loco- 
motive every  night  regular  as  long  as  I  have.  Ef  I 
could  git  that  place  in  the  yard  I've  done  spoke  about.' 
En  he  sez,  pleasant-like,  '  Well,  we'll  see.  Maybe  you 
will.     They're  short  a  hand.'     En  I  sez  to  him,  '  I  ain't 

no  owl,  but  a  married  man "     Here  he  broke  off 

again,  and,  as  he  turned  around  and  faced  his  friends,  one 
could  see  how  in  the  minds  of  the  frivolous  he  had  come 
to  be  associated  with  the  very  bird  with  whom  he  dis- 
claimed all  connection,  for  his  mouth  was  small,  his 
brows  decidedly  arched,  his  nose  beaked,  and  his  eyes 
had  deep,  dark  rings  around  them, — a  natural  defect 
increased  by  his  nocturnal  habits.  But  it  was  a  kind 
face  and  a  good  one  in  spite  of  these  peculiarities,  and, 
grimy  as  it  was,  a  light  burst  from  it  as  if  from  a  dark- 
lantern  when  the  bright  side  is  turned  towards  one, 
when  he  said  again,  meditatively,  "  Carrie  '11  feel  good 
and  happy  when  I  tell  her  to-night." 

"  I'll  be  bound  she  will,"  said  John  Shore,  sympa- 
thetically ;  "  and  what  I  sez  is  you'll  git  it.  That's 
what  I  sez." 

"  Carrie "  began  Mr.  Stebbins  again.    He  stopped. 

John  Shore,  who  was  looking  at  him,  saw  his  eyes 
dilate  with  horror  and  his  hair  literally  rise  on  end. 
Poor  "  Owl"  Stebbins  had  heard  a  sound  and  seen  a 
sight  that  made  him  stone  for  a  second.  Then,  exclaim- 
ing "  My  God !"  he  leaped  out  into  darkness, — eternity. 
The  next  instant  two  terrible  lights  flashed  upon  each 
other,  two  trains  rushed  together  with  horrible  swift- 
ness and  fury.  The  stars  looked  down  quietly  upon 
the  awful  sight.     The  distant  mountains  faintly  echoed 

13* 


150  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

the  awful  "crash."  And  in  a  cottage  not  far  away 
*'  Carrie"  was  putting  "  the  children"  to  bed  and  think- 
ing of  their  father. 

When  the  men  who  came  to  the  rescue  reached  the 
wreck  of  locomotive  No.  26,  they  found  John  Shore 
held  fast  indeed  by  one  of  his  legs,  which  was  caught 
by  the  fire-box  of  the  engine,  but  working  frantically 
with  his  arms  to  extricate  his  unconscious  friend,  hav- 
ing managed  to  reach  the  tool-box.  And  what  was  it 
that  John  Shore — "  worthless"  John  Shore,  ''good-for- 
nothing"  John  Shore — shouted  when  he  saw  them?  It 
was  this:  ^' lliank  God!  Help  Jim.  Help  poor  Jim. 
Never  mind  me.'' 

This  was  done  as  soon  as  possible,  which  was  not 
very  soon,  for  he  was  literally  buried  under  the  wreck. 
And  when  he  had  been  taken  awa}^,  and  they  turned  to 
John  Shore,  what  did  they  find?  Why,  simply  that 
all  this  while  the  fire-box  had  been  literally  burning  his 
leg  to  a  crisp, — roasting  it  from  the  knee  down. 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  151 


Y. 


"  What  different  lots  our  stars  accord  ! 
This  babe  to  be  hailed  and  wooed  as  a  lord  I 

And  that  to  be  shunned  like  a  leper  ! 
One  to  the  world's  wine,  honey,  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 

To  its  vinegar  only  and  pepper." 


Hood. 


"The  Drisdale  accident,"  as  it  was  called  by  the 
papers,  was  all  owing  to  the  mistake  of  a  telegraph  .op- 
erator, but  it  was  as  fatal  as  though  it  had  been  planned 
by  the  Nihilists.  Zach  Hodges  was  killed  outright. 
Poor  Jim  Wilkins  died  of  his  injuries,  as  did  Jack 
Culbert  and  Belle  Podley.  John  Shore  and  Jonah 
were  among  those  who  were  carried  to  the  nearest 
house,  which  was  converted  into  a  hospital  for  the 
wounded  of  both  trains.  The  latter's  arm  had  got  an 
ugly  compound  fracture  and  two  of  his  ribs  had  been 
broken,  so  that  he  was  not  particularly  pleased  when 
he  overheard  the  doctor  in  charge  say  that  there  was 
"nothing  serious  about  that  case."  But  with  John 
Shore  it  was  different,  and  after  a  brief  examination  it 
became  clear  that  his  leg  would  have  to  be  amputated. 
This  was  done,  and  he  was  no  more  gratified  than 
Jonah  when  he  heard  the  operation  spoken  of  as  "  a 
beautiful  thing — about  the  neatest  I  ever  performed" — 
by  the  enthusiastic  surgeon,  nor  could  he  feel  that  he 
was  "  doing  splendidly"  as  the  brisk  doctor  seemed  to 


152  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

expect.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  little  enough 
light  left  in  his  life  when  he  came  home, — only  the 
long,  melancholy  shafts  of  the  setting  sun ;  but  it 
had  been  high  noon  he  knew  now  compared  with  the 
blackness  that  settled  down  upon  him  when  he  knew 
himself  to  be  a  cripple.  And,  unfortunately,  just  as  he 
began  to  convalesce,  he  heard  of  the  death  of  the  friend 
for  whom  he  would  willingly  have  made  the  costly 
sacrifice,  and  the  result  was  a  backset  and  a  long,  long 
illness  of  the  most  weariful,  despairing  kind.  So  great 
was  his  depression  that  the  brisk  doctor  was  moved  to 
give  him  a  brisk  scolding,  in  which  he  asserted  that  he 
would  "  never  get  well"  if  he  persisted  in  being  so 
gloomy.  But  finding  that  this  was  like  telling  a  clown 
that  he  would  never  make  another  joke,  or  an  organ- 
grinder  that  he  would  never  hear  another  note  of  music, 
he  perceived  that  he  had  a  sick  heart  to  deal  with,  and, 
divining  his  sadness  and  loneliness,  set  himself  to  cheer 
and  comfort  this  bruised  reed,  and  was  so  kind  and 
good  in  a  thousand  little  ways  that  John  Shore  ever 
after  loved  him  for  it. 

Nothing  except  an  earthquake,  resulting  in  the  high- 
est spur  of  the  Mountain  developing  into  an  active 
volcano,  could  have  more  disturbed  the  community 
than  the  tragic  ending  of  the  long-planned  outing. 
Daddy  Culbert's  sense  of  personal  loss  was  sensibly 
lightened  by  what  he  felt  to  be  the  righteous  retribu- 
tion incurred  by  the  non-fulfilment  of  the  law  written 
in  his  own  mind  and  previously  very  generally  pro- 
claimed only  to  be  almost  universally  scouted:  "  Thou 
shalt  not  waste  precious  time  in  play,  but  shalt  work 
diligently   on    all    the   da^'s   of    thy   life    without   ex- 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  153 

ception."  This  falling  away  from  primitive  ideals, 
and  corruption  of  the  morals  and  manners  of  society, 
he  saw  had  to  be  stopped  at  any  cost  to  individuals. 
Bowed  over  his  stick  until  he  looked  like  the  initial 
letter  of  his  own  name,  he  shook  his  head  and  sorrowed, 
and  said,  "  This  here  is  what  comes  of  a-gallivantin', 
and  picnickering,  and  the  corn  not  gathered,  even  much 
less  put  up,  and  shucked,  and  shelled.  Jack,  he  ought 
to  er  know'd  better, — done  better."  Mr.  NcAvman  was 
shocked  by  this  utterly  unlooked-for  conclusion  of  the 
feud  that  had  filled  his  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  every- 
thing else  for  so  many  months,  and  both  seemed  and 
felt  perfectly  dazed.  The  yearling  calf  which  had  swelled 
until  it  had  become  the  world  in  which  he  lived  and 
moved  and  had  his  being  suddenly  shrank  into  its  true 
pilulous  proportions,  leaving  him  a  prey  to  vain  regrets 
and  a  miserable  restlessness.  As  for  Mrs.  ^N'ewman,  she 
was  fairly  distraught  when,  after  long  and  anxious 
waiting,  the  bad  news  began  to  come  in,  getting  worse 
with  every  galloping  messenger  and  gossiping  idler. 
And  when,  at  one  o'clock  that  night,  poor,  pale,  chilled 
little  E.  Mintah  crept  out  of  the  covered  wagon  that 
had  brought  most  of  the  sobbing  women  and  sleepy  chil- 
dren of  the  party  home  again,  where  had  all  the  cold- 
ness, anger,  bitterness,  of  the  last  three  months  gone 
that  the  two  women  fell  upon  each  other's  necks,  weeping, 
embracing,  forgiving,  and  forgiven  ? 

E.  Mintah  spent  every  spare  moment  that  she  could 
get  for  the  next  three  days  in  the  exercise  of  an  accom- 
plishment little  valued  hitherto, — letter-writing ;  labori- 
ously forming  each  letter,  and  blotting  it  often  when 
made  with  the  big  tears  that  would  roll  down,  splash  ! 


154  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

when  she  ^Yas  not  thinking,  on  her  only  sheet  of  paper, 
bought,  with  the  envelope,  at  "  the  sto',"  for  five  cents. 
When  finally  completed,  it  was  addressed  to  "  mistur 
Jonur  Newmen  Att  the  horspitull,"  and  ran  as  follows: 
"  mi  Deere  beeloved  i  didn  Wanter  leve  U.  U  no.  thay 
woodn  lemmy  stay  withe  U.  Hit  pooty  near  Kild  me. 
en  F.  U.  doant  git  wel  en  come  Hoam,  i'm  gonter  go 
ter  U.  F.  i  got  to  Kraul.  ime  Desprit  wen  i  think  Of 
U.  mi  Deere,  mi  Hart  bleads  in  Sid.  i  cant  doe 
nothin  butt  Kri  All  the  tim.  in  Dever  ter  rite  soon 
pleas,  mi  Deere  i  hop  U  wil  excuse  the  Expresure 
en  Badd  ritin.  come  Hoam  Jonur  or  i  Wil  Die.  no 
moar  att  preasant.  i  Liv  in  the  Hopness  Of  U  comin 
Hoam  mi  Darrlin  Jonur.  mothers  lik  She  Uster  was. 
she  Sez  We  kin  git  Mairred  wen  Wee  pleas,  o  aint  Hit 
joy  Full,  mi  Darrlin.  i  seed  mizis  Jim  Willy ums  yistur 
Day.  She's  moas  Kraazy.  her  en  him  warnt  Goode 
frens  witches  y  She's  a  Takin  On  soe  Orfull.  Eose  zis 
Las  kalfs  a  heffer  en  Mothers  giv  herr  ter  IJ  en  mec. 
but  i  dont  care  fur  Nuthin  Withe  out  U  come  Hoam.  i 
dont  tak  Noe  Pleasure  in  Nuthin  mi  Deere,  i  dont 
wante  Nuthin  cep  to  Have  U  git  Wel  en  come  Hoam. 
o  if  i  cood  see  Jonur  is  wat  mi  Hart  Sez  evry  minit  mi 
Darrlin. 

"  Your  truely. 
"rite  soon  r.  mintah  Newmann." 

Over  and  over  did  Jonah  read  this  tender  and  artless 
production,  which  had  no  fault  in  his  eyes,  except  that 
it  was  so  very,  very  short.  And  the  first  thing  he  did 
when  he  was  well  enough  to  carry  on  the  correspond- 
ence was  to  answer  it  in  his  very  best  style, — a  style  al- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  155 

together  superior  to  hers,  as  he  could  not  but  feel :  "  My 
Dear  Beloved  miss  i  receive  your  most  kind  and  efec- 
turely  letter  and  i  was  more  than  glad  to  here  from 
you.  it  found  me  recovering  Of  my  helth  and  i  hope 
these  few  lines  will  reich  you  darling  and  find  you  in 
Joying  the  best  Of  helth  witch  is  a  grate  Blessing, 
pleas  go  to  town  and  in  quir  bout  that  there  Shote  i 
lef  there  and  take  it  strait  back  Hoam.  if  you  will 
excuse  me  Sayin  so  feed  the  heffer  a  little  to  gentle  it 
down  witch  saves  Trouble,  but  don't  you  git  hurted.  i 
aint  let  to  rite  more  responsably  now,  and  I  wood  Of 
ansered  befo  but  i  aint  been  Abel.  mother  rites  me 
Marsh  Culbert's  hangin  Bound — i  hop  you  dont  have 
nothing  to  say  to  his  foolin  or  any  such  expressings 
while  ime  gone,  he  should  not  take  the  Hand  witch  is 
Belonging  to  a  Nothur.  i  must  bring  my  letter  to  a 
Cloas  by  wishing  you  good  night  my  Darling 

"  Yore  friend  to  command 
"Jonah  Newman." 

There  was  no  one  to  write  to  John  Shore.  A  little 
enthusiasm  had  been  aroused  by  the  way  in  which  he 
had  acted,  even  among  people  most  prejudiced  against 
him,  and  at  first  he  got  some  messages  of  sympathy 
from  old  acquaintances  and  neighbors ;  but  writing  was 
a  most  serious  matter  with  them  all,  and  with  none 
more  than  Alfred,  and  in  a  little  while  it  was  not  so 
clear  in  some  quarters  that  he  had  behaved  remarkably 
well  at  all,  while  in  others  the  story,  like  last  year's 
crops,  was  regarded  as  disposed  of.  So  the  question  of 
getting  well,  and  of  his  future,  was  one  that  he  was 
left  to  decide  for  himself  without  having  his  judgment 


156  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

biased  by  outside  influences  or  arguments ;  and  when 
the  brisk  doctor  rubbed  his  hands  one  day,  and  laughed, 
and  said,  "  You  are  all  right  now,  Shore.  You'll  have 
to  wait  a  while  before  you  can  wear  your  artificial  limb, 
but  when  3^ou  get  that  you'll  be  as  much  of  a  man  as 
you  ever  were,  almost.  Er — where  are  you  going  now  ?" 
the  blood  rushed  to  his  face — indeed,  to  the  very  roots  of 
his  hair — as  he  replied,  "  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  go  to  my 
son's, — a  good  piece  beyond  here,  up  in  the  mountins." 

"Oh,  you've  a  son!  That's  all  right,"  said  the 
doctor,  relieved  to  find  that  a  patient  in  whom  he  had 
taken  an  especial  interest  was  provided  with  a  natural 
protector  presumably  able  to  take  care  of  him.  "  I 
didn't  know  how  you  were  situated.  When  you  have 
made  your  arrangements,  you  can  leave  here  any  day 
you  like.  You  can  take  your  leg  with  you, — the  wooden 
one,  I  mean, — and  I've  explained  all  about  that.  I 
think  you'll  have  no  further  trouble.  But  if  you  should, 
here's  my  address,  and  you  can  come  to  me  or  write." 

"  Excuse  me,  doctor,"  said  John,  "  a-mentionin'  of  it. 
But  w^hat's  to  pay  fur  all  this  here  ?" 

"  Pay  ?"  said  the  doctor,  apparently  astounded  by  the 
question.  "  Why,  nothing  at  all, — not  a  cent.  The — er 
— the  railroad  pays  for  everything,  and  it  owes  you 
more  than  it  could  ever  pay  for.  So  make  your  mind 
easy.  Yes.  Of  course.  Er — who's  that  calling  mo 
out  there  ?" 

John  Shore  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face  all 
the  time,  and  the  next  time  he  saw  him  he  began  again, 
"  Excuse  me  a-mentionin'  hit,  doctor,  and  excuse  me 
a-sayin'  so,  but  I'm  shore  as  I'm  Ij'in'  here  there's  been 
Bomethin'  to  pay.     And  I  want  to  know " 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  157 

"Oh,  there's  been  something  to  pay,  I  grant.  There's 
been  the  devil  to  pay,  and  you  have  settled  the  bill,  my 
poor  fellow.  But  there's  nothing  now,  nothing  what- 
ever, I  assure  you,"  insisted  the  doctor,  who,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  had  at  that  moment  a  receipted  bill  ("  Dr.  Black 
Dr.  to  Josiah  Turner.  To  one  wooden  artificial  limb," 
etc.)  in  his  coat-pocket  that  it  seemed  to  him  was  being 
perused  through  the  intervening  folds  of  cloth  by  his 
patient's  faded  eyes. 

"  Sir,  you're  a-deceivin'  of  me.  That  there  leg,  now, 
must  er  cost  a  power  of  money,"  said  John  Shore. 

"  Oh,  no.  Legs  are  very  cheap.  Almost  nothing,  1 
may  say.  The  railroad  gets  them  by  the  dozen,  I  dare- 
say. These  things  are  always  happening,  you  know," 
the  doctor  replied,  with  cheerful  and  unhesitating  men- 
dacity. * 

"  How  cheap  ?  Would  five  dollars  git  one  ?"  persisted 
John  Shore,  unconvinced.  "  I've  got  five  dollars  that — 
that  was  give  to  me  by  a  friend,  and " 

"  Five  dollars !"  said  the  doctor,  shocked  by  the  ex- 
travagance of  the  estimate.  "  ]S"ot  a  cent  over  four 
fifty,  I  should  say,  unless  you  had  a  golden  leg  like 
Miss Well,  say  five,  if  you  like.  I'd  let  the  rail- 
road do  it  if  I  were  you.  '  Who  breaks,  pays,'  you 
know ;  but  if  you  are  dissatisfied,  why  I'll  hand  it  over 
to  their  agent  here  for  you." 

"I'd  be  obleeged,  sir,  ef  you  would,  —  mightily 
obleeged,"  said  John  Shore,  and  it  was  so  settled. 

It  was  in  the  late  autumn,  on  an  extraordinarily  still 
and  beautiful  day,  even  for  the  season,  that  John  Shoi'e 
was  brought  home  like  a  Spartan  on  his  shield,  except 
that  in  this  unprized  hero's  veins  the  blood  was  still 

14 


158  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

flowing,  and  his  heart,  still  beating,  quickened  its  action 
and  crimsoned  warm  as  the  sumacs  by  the  roadside  as 
each  dear,  familiar  object  met  his  gaze. 

All  was  hushed  and  husbanded  and  secure  in  the 
lovely  valley,  which  seemed  a  benediction  made  visible 
as  it  stretched  away  before  him,  wide  and  peaceful, 
serene  and  beautiful.  Of  all  the  sowing,  and  growing, 
and  blowing  of  the  past  year,  nothing  remained,  except 
in  the  stubble-fields,  in  some  of  which  long  ranks  of 
"  Cornfederates,"  as  tattered  and  forlorn  as  any  he  had 
ever  seen,  still  held  their  own,  gallantly  upholding  a 
desperate  cause ;  while  in  others  Summer  had  stacked 
her  arms  and  surrendered  unconditionally  to  victorious 
Autumn,  whose  banners  flamed  glorious  and  triumphant 
everywhere. 

Wrapped  in  the  spectral  mists  of  Indian  summer, 
"Burly  Blue  Eidge"  and  the  distant  Alleghanies  looked 
like  their  own  wraiths.  The  sky  was  a  July  sky, 
deeply,  warmly  blue  and  almost  cloudless,  but  the  air 
had  the  delicious  October  quality,  and  felt  as  though  it 
had  been  carefully  iced  to  get  exactly  the  right  mean 
between  heat  and  cold. 

John  Shore's  eyes  rested  now  on  the  old  fort  redly 
crowning  the  crest  of  a  hill ;  now  on  Massanutton's 
spur;  now  on  the  Shenandoah,  still  serenely  shining, 
flowing  just  as  it  had  done  when  as  a  happy  boy  he  had 
fished  and  nutted  on  its  banks.  And  his  thoughts  were 
busy, — busy.  He  got  wide  views  of  the  country-  about 
him  through  the  bare  branches,  and  of  the  heaven 
above  him,  and  as  he  lay  there  with  his  own  mutilated 
tree  of  life  stripped  bare  of  the  leaves  that  once  clus- 
tered so  greenly  and  thickly  about  it  he  was  getting 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  159 

wider  ones  of  his  own  past  and  future  than  he  had 
ever  done  before,  as  his  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood 
passed  in  review  before  him.  '•  Oh,  ef  Alfred  will  only 
be  good  to  me !"  he  thought,  with  a  hope  that  was 
almost  despair.  So  many  things  and  people  had  failed 
him,  one  way  or  other,  that  he  dared  count  upon  noth- 
ing, yet  could  but  cling  desperately  to  the  bright  possi- 
bility that  his  only  child  would  be  moved  to  pity,  love, 
and  cherish  him. 

He  was  borne  down  the  Eed  Lane  followed  by  quite 
a  procession,  composed  chiefly  of  children,  past  cottage 
after  cottage,  and  saw  everything  as  in  a  dream,  and 
there  was  the  dear,  dear  old  home  again,  and  there 
were  the  lilac-biishes,  and  the  well,  and  the  orchard. 
He  could  not  see  them  very  distinctly  for  the  tears  that 
filled  his  eyes.  Alfred  being  hailed,  came  running  out 
looking  rather  scared  and  decidedly  flustered,  and 
coming  up  to  his  father,  bent  over  him,  shook  his  thin 
hand  and  said  in  a  hurried  half  whisper,  "I'm  glad  to 
see  you  'bout  agin,  Pa-ap ;  I  certainly  am ;  powerful 
glad.     I  'lowed  to  go  and  see  you.     But  I  hadn't  no 

money  at  all,  and — Tildy  she  keeps "     John  Shore 

threw  his  arms  around  his  neck  and  embraced  him. 
"  Hem !  It's  coolin'  fur  frost,"  Alfred  concluded.  He 
had  broken  off  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  his  explana- 
tion, and  looked  wildly  about  him  and  up  at  the  sky, 
the  reason  being  that  Matilda  had  leisurely  walked 
down  and  joined  him  before  he  was  prepared  for  the 
pleasure. 

"  Oh,  you've  done  been  brought  Aere,"  she  said,  coldly. 
When  it  was  thought  that  John  Shore  would  die,  she 
had  got  the  truth  about  the  property  out  of  her  hus- 


IGO  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

band  and  had  fully  decided  upon  her  own  course.  She 
would  have  liked  to  inaugurate  it  at  once ;  but  the 
neighbors  were  there,  all  kindness  and  condolence  for 
the  time  being,  and  ready,  with  the  fickleness  of  popu- 
lar feeling,  to  make  a  hero  of  John  Shore,  almost,  again, 
seeing  him  so  sorely  stricken.  So  she  was  obliged  to 
be  content  for  the  present  with  looking  on  sourly,  and 
saying,  when  Alfred  appealed  timidly  to  her  to  know 
where  he  should  put  his  father,  "  You  can  take  him  in. 
I'll  see  'bout  that,"  to  which  he  replied,  coaxingly, 
"That's  right,  Tildy ;  you'll  do  what's  right."  John 
Shore,  who  had  been  deeply  pained  by  the  fact  that  his 
son  had  neither  come  nor  written  to  him  during  his 
illness,  no  sooner  understood  or  thought  he  understood 
why  this  had  been  than  he  promptly  and  entirely  for- 
gave the  neglect,  only  too  glad  to  have  a  peg  on  which 
to  hang  his  forgiveness  indeed.  His  quick  ear  caught 
the  suppressed  tone  of  Matilda's  speech,  and  he  half 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  in  his  surprise.  His  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  his  gray  hair,  pushed  back  from  his 
deeply-wrinkled,  blue-veined  forehead,  fell  about  his 
neck  in  pathetic  scantiness.  '•  Why,  where  hadn't  I 
to  oughter  go?"  he  said,  in  tremulous  tones  of  pained 
astonishment,  looking  from  husband  to  wife  with  a 
troubled  glance  that  said  to  Alfred  as  plainly  as  possi- 
ble, "  Are  you  going  to  cast  off  your  poor  old  father, 
my  son  ?" 

^^  NowhurV  said  Alfred,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  cour- 
age, in  response  to  it.  "  Xowhur  at  all.  Pa-ap,  in  course, 
but  right  hero.  This  here's  your  home."  He  spoke 
with  a  fire  and  energy  most  unusual  in  him,  and  Ma- 
tilda was  amazed  to  iiear  it.     She  was  still  looking  at 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  161 

him  as  he  busied  himself  with  the  few  packages  that 
constituted  his  father's  luggage,  when  a  little  boy  came 
limping  briskly  around  the  corner  of  the  house  and 
down  the  path,  stopping  short  at  the  gate  to  round  his 
eyes  into  a  tremendous  stare  at  the  cortege. 

It  was  the  queerest  little  nondescript  of  a  figure  imagi- 
nable, in  a  colored  shirt  of  bright  calico,  a  man's  waist- 
coat that  came  half-way  down  his  bare  legs,  and  trou- 
sers of  incredible  bagginess,  as  much  too  large  as  they 
were  too  long,  the  last  defect  being  remedied  by  much 
rolling.  The  whole  costume  was  rendered  harmonious, 
as  it  were,  by  being  covered  with  so  many  successive 
layers  of  what  local  politicians  are  fond  of  caUing  ''the 
sacred  soil  of  Virginia"  as  to  have  fairly  entitled  him 
to  be  regarded  as  a  landed  proprietor.  Through  the 
torn  crown  of  an  enormous  straw  hat,  which  had  been 
nibbled  by  the  calves  and  "*worried"  by  the  puppies 
.until  it  presented  in  miniature  very  much  the  dismem- 
bered appearance  of  a  hay-stack  in  March,  protruded  a 
curly  flaxen  poll.  And  beneath  its  ragged  brim  was  a 
charming  little  face, — a  face  full  of  enchanting  baby 
curves,  having  baby  eyes  of  clear  innocence  that  seemed 
sui'prisingly,  vividly  blue  by  contrast  with  the  tanned 
skin,  and  cheeks  as  pink  as  clover,  and  a  smile,  when 
he  did  smile,  of  most  peculiar  and  unusual  sweetness. 
John  Shore  was  won  by  it  at  once,  and  said,  cheerfully, 
"  Why,  hello  1     Who's  this  you've  got  here,  Al  ?" 

'•That's  Willy.      Tildy's   cousin.      Bob's  son.      He's 
livin'  with  us  now." 

"  Well,  Willy  boy,  howdy,"  said  John  Shore,  and  the 
child  limped  down  to  him  and  they  shook  hands,  John 
Shore  full  of  kind  interest  and  Willy  all  eyes. 
I  14* 


162  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

''  Suppose  you  run  in  with  them  things  of  mine  now, 
— Burygyard,  and  my  fiddle,  and  bundle.  Set  'em 
down  anywhurs  'most,  sonny,"  suggested  John  Shore, 
presently,  and  the  child  seized  the  cage,  in  spite  of  a 
vicious  peck  and  squawk  from  its  agitated  occupant, 
and  carried  it  into  the  house.  John  Shore  and  his  at- 
tendants followed,  Jinny  White,  who  had  joined  the 
party,  talking  for  everybody  with  all  her  own  fatal 
fluency :  "  I'm  glad  as  though  I'd  found  a  gold  mind, 
John,  to  see  you  alive  and  kickin',  fur  it's  what  nobody 
hadn't  no  thought  of  seeing  down  here,"  said  she.  "  And 
ef  you  had  uv  died,  I  was  goin'  down  to  lay  you  out 
shore,  John  Shore,  ef  it  was  the  last  thing  ever  I  done. 
When  it  comes  to  buryin's  I  ain't  got  my  match  on  the 
Mountin',  all's  agreed,  and  I  know  it,  and  I've  been  told 
so  over  and  over  again  lately.  Fur  I  laid  out  every  one 
of  them  that  was  killed  whren  you  wuz,  John,  jes'  elegant ! 
Sairy  Dobbin  sez  to  me  when  she  seed  'em  all  there  in  a 
row,  'Well,  fur  layin'  out  straight,  and  neat,  and  fixin' 
stiffs  off  tasty ^  3'ou  ain't  got  your  ekil,  Jinn}^  White,  and  I 
don't  kyur  who  hears  me  say  so.'  And,  sez  she,  '  I  tell 
you  what,  ef  you  should  go  befo'  I  do,  I'll  take  as  much 
pains  to  please  yer,  stiff  or  no  stiff,  as  I've  seed  you  do 
fur  other  folks,  and  ef  /go  first  I'll  be  obleegcd  ef  you'll 
bar  in  mind  and  not  disremember  that  I  couldn't  never 
abide  yaller  nowhurs  'bout  my  face.  I  ain't  been  a  com- 
plected person  to  have  it  livin',  and  it  ain't  likely  I'm 
goin'  to  be  dead.'  And  that's  so,  fur  even  when  she 
wuz  a  child  she  wuz  as  yaller's  her  own  butter  is  in 
winter,  owin'  to  the  stuff  she  puts  in  it  to  the  pint  of 
poisoning ;  and  she  can't  bear  no  more,  'less  it  was  two, 
three  yards  tucked  under  her  and  sorter  laid  up  over 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  163 

her  feet  like,  which  need  to  be  kivered  every  time.  Fur 
when  beauty  was  shared  Sairy  Dobbin  was  behind  the 
do',  as  anybody  can  see  fur  theiraclves.  And  as  I  was 
sayin',  John,  I  done  it  all,  and  it's  the  wust  sort  of 
shame  you  warn't  here  to  see  the  buryin's,  fur  they  wuz 
beautiful:  two  separate  sermons  to  every  stiff,  and  tlie 
biggest  crowd  come  all  the  way  from  Millboro',  and 
the  mourners  to  be  heard  three  fields  off!  You'll  never 
sec  the  like  in  yowr  lifetime,  John,  fur  I  suppose  you 
call  yourself  alive,  and  air  alive,  though  part  buried, 
which,  I  must  say,  I  never  will  rightly  know  whether 
bein'  dead  you're  alive,  or  bein'  alive  you're  dead,  fur  it 
beats  me  to  say.  And  ef  you  want  any  custard,  or 
spoon  vittles,  or  sech,  John,  made,  I'm  more  'n  williu' 
to  do  it,  and  I  know  how  ef  any  woman  ever  did,  fur 
my  teeth's  all  gone  to  snags  so's  I  kin  scarcely  find  one, 
hunt  around  spry  as  I  will  with  m}^  tongue." 

She  had  scarcely  taken  breath  in  the  delivery  of  this 
speech,  in  the  course  of  which  John  Shore  had  been 
deposited  on  a  cot  in  the  corner  of  the  living-room. 
One  of  the  neighbors  now  broke  in  with  a  good-natured 
*' Well,  Jinny,  woman,  you've  got  a  plenty  of  jaw  left." 
That  made  all  the  others  guffaw  outright  in  general 
chorus;  and,  after  a  lively  spar  between  them,  in  which 
Jinny  took  the  ground  that  if  she  had  had  Samson's 
opportunities  she  would  have  known  who  "  needed 
killin'  bad,"  and  he  had  retorted  that  "Tim  White's 
life  warn't  worth  shucks  anyways,  and  charity  begins 
at  home,"  the  little  company  dispersed  much  more  cheer- 
fully than  it  had  gathered,  leaving  John  Shore  much 
exhausted  in  mind  and  body,  but  most  humbly  thankful 
that  he  was  "  at  home." 


164  BEHIND   TUE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

It  was  not  long  before  John  Shore  found  out  what 
sort  of  home  it  was  that  he  had  come  back  to,  for  Ma- 
tilda waxed  daily  more  disagreeable  as  he  grew  better 
and  it  became  quite  clear  that  he  was  a  fixture.  She 
had  not  meant  that  he  should  stay.  She  had  not 
thought  there  would  be  any  great  difficulty  in  getting 
rid  of  him,  for  when  had  Alfred  ever  dared  to  oppose 
her  in  anything  ?  But,  like  most  autocrats,  she  had  not 
known  where  to  stop  and  when  to  conciliate,  so  that 
when  she  began  first  to  suggest  that  "  the  old  man  was 
plenty  well  enough  to  turn  out  and  root  for  hisself." 
and  then  to  urge  that  he  should  be  "  told  to  quit,"  and 
finally  to  insist  that  he  should  "go  right  off","  she  was 
amazed  to  find  that  Alfred  had  developed  a  vein  of 
unobtrusive,  non-combative,  but  perfectly  adamantine 
"  obstinacy,"  as  she  called  it,  that  she  could  never  have 
foreseen  as  an  even  remotely  possible  contingency.  She 
could  do  nothing  with  him.  He  simjDly  turned  a  deaf 
ear  to  all  her  complaints,  arguments,  propositions,  at 
first;  and  when  she  finally  began  to  threaten  and  com- 
mand, instead  of  cowering  before  her  and  conceding 
anything, — everything, — instead  of  even  deprecating 
her  wrath,  or  of  attempting  to  persuade  her  to  look 
at  the  matter  differently,  or  using  so  much  as  one  of  the 
glittering  generalities  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  intro- 
ducing into  such  conversations  as  a  sort  of  lightning- 
rod  to  carry  ofl"  all  dangerous  forces,  he  sat  perfectly 
still  and  silent  for  a  moment,  with  an  expression  of 
abject  woe  on  his  honest,  vacant  face  that  was  enough 
to  melt  a  paving-stone ;  and  then,  turning  about  a  dozen 
colors,  he  started  up  from  his  chair,  knocking  it  over 
in  the  energy  of  his  feelings,  and,  running  his  hands 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  165 

deep  in  his  pockets,  shot  his  i:)rotuberant  eyes  out  at 
her  as  if  they  had  been  a  missile  of  some  sort,  and 
fairly  shouted,  "By  gosh,  Tildy,  never  T  which,  coming 
from  him,  was  as  effective  as  though  he  had  sworn 
fluently  in  nine  languages.  The  upshot  of  the  matter 
was  that  "  Pa-ap"  stayed,  was  begrudged  a  seat  at  his 
own  fireside,  fared  meagrely  at  his  own  table,  and  was 
only  welcome  to  make  himself  as  miserable  as  he 
pleased.  Alfred,  having  gained  his  point,  was  content, 
and,  not  being  a  sensitive-plant  by  any  means,  had  no 
great  sympathy  for  sentimental  grievances,  and  ex- 
pected his  father  to  be  so  as  well.  He  treated  him  with 
a  kind  of  gentle  indifference  that  was  not  unkindness 
any  more  than  it  was  kindness, — the  husks  of  the  bread 
for  which  his  father's  starved  heart  was  hungering, — 
his  idea  being  that  he  was  thereby  adroitly  avoiding 
contention  by  making  an  unpleasant  fact  as  little  prom- 
inent as  possible.  As  for  Matilda,  like  Time,  she  knew 
how  to  take  her  revenges.  She  could  not  drive  him  out 
of  the  house  in  one  way,  but  she  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  the  thing  was  impossible  in  another;  and  if  it 
were,  she  meant  to  indemnify  herself  for  the  "plague" 
and  "pesterment"  of  the  dreadful  infliction.  All  the 
odd  jobs  of  the  establishment  were  put  off  upon  him, 
in  addition  to  his  regular  work.  It  was  her  delight  to 
make  him  fetch  and  carry  for  her.  She  showed  a  truly 
diabolical  ingenuity  in  devising,  hatefully,  this  or  that 
new  device  for  making  him  unhappy.  She  wished  to 
be  unbearable,  and  nature  had  eminently  fitted  her  for 
the  task.  And  she  succeeded  in  giving  as  much  pain 
as  it  is  possible  for  an  enemy  to  inflict.  So  systemati- 
cally  was   he   persecuted,   so   persistently   nagged,   so 


166  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

wholly  misunderstood,  that,  cripple  as  he  was,  he  would 
doubtless  have  drifted  off  again  for  the  last  time  into  a 
world  wide,  indeed,  and  never  too  kind  to  him,  but 
comparatively  alluring,  had  it  not  been  for  a  new  tie, 
a  fresh  interest  that  had  wonderfully  sprung  up  in  his 
life, — in  short,  but  for  Willy,  or  "  Willy  boy,"  as  he  gen- 
erally called  him.  We  write  "  finis"  after  many  a  chapter 
in  the  book  of  life,  and  feel  sure  that  all  is  ended  for  us 
and  that  there  is  nothing  more  to  suffer  or  to  enjoy  or 
to  hope  for  practically  ;  but  until  the  angel  of  death 
traces  it  with  his  inverted  touch  in  the  sands  of  time, 
the  merciful  truth  is  that  day  will  succeed  night,  and 
sunshine  storm,  and  gladness  sorrow. 

If  anybody  had  told  John  Shore  when  Giant  Despair 
sat  by  his  bedside  in  the  hospital  that  he  would  take  a 
child  and  set  him  in  the  midst  of  his  heart, — that  poor, 
ruined  temple  of  shattered  hopes  and  faiths  and  a  lost 
idol, — he  would  have  said  that  it  was  impossible.  But 
80  it  was.  While  he  was  still  unable  to  get  about, 
Willy,  as  he  put  it,  was  "  detailed  for  horspitul  duty," 
Alfred  being  away  so  much,  and  Matilda  determined 
not  to  be  troubled  with  an  invalid.  It  was  Willy  who 
brought  all  his  meals,  and  sat  on  the  bed  near  him  while 
he  ate  them ;  Willy  who,  with  a  temper  as  sweet  as  his 
face,  ran  all  his  errands  and  ministered  to  all  his  wants. 
In  this  way  an  intimacy  sprang  up  between  the  two 
children,  for  John  Shore  was  as  much  of  a  child  in  some 
respects  then  as  on  the  day  he  was  born,  and  would 
have  been  if  he  had  lived  as  long  as  Thomas  Parr. 
There  was  not  as  much  inequality  in  their  friendship  as 
in  that  between  many  men  of  the  same  nationality,  age, 
position,  fortune,  in  spite  of  appearances,  and  friends 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  167 

they  became  emphatically, — firm  friends,  and  natural 
allies, — presenting  a  solid  front  to  society  that  often 
baffled  even  Matilda's  spite ;  and  a  spite  Matilda  had 
against  both  of  them,  if  ever  a  woman  indulged  the 
noble  sentiment.  AYilly  had  been  "  a  bequestment,"  left 
her  by  his  father,  a  cousin  of  hers,  who  had  migrated 
from  the  Mountain  to  the  Big  Fork  neighborhood  as  a 
youth,  and  had  carried  away  an  ideal  Matilda  in  his 
mind  whom  he  believed  to  be  a  kind  woman, — a  convic- 
tion always  a  comfortable  one  to  entertain,  but  never 
more  so  than  when  he  was  lying  on  his  death-bed 
trying  to  dispose  of  five  orphaned,  penniless  children. 
Not  that  he  was  harassed  particularly  by  the  problem, 
for  with  that  absolute  reliance  on  his  "  kin"  which  Vir- 
ginians of  every  class  feel,  and  which  is  so  well  founded, 
it  was  only  a  question  of  judicious  choice,  selection, 
arrangement,— the  right  child  in  the  right  place.  It 
was  true  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  take  care  of  them 
himself;  but,  as  he  justly  argued,  that  was  no  reason 
why  other  people  should  not  be  more  fortunate  in 
that  particular  form  of  industry  known  as  "raisin'  chil- 
dren." And  being  a  person  of  confiding  character,  and 
rather  more  than  the  usual  share  of  parental  illusions 
about  the  intelligence,  beauty,  and  general  worth  of  his 
progeny,  it  was,  at  last,  with  a  feeling  that  he  was 
positively  endowing  certain  families,  paying  them  the 
greatest  compliment  in  his  power,  and  giving  them  a 
distinguished  and  distinguishing  proof  of  his  confidence, 
that  Mr.  Hardin  made  the  usual  provision  in  such  cases 
for  his  sons.  It  was  after  great  deliberation,  and  with 
peculiar  satisfaction,  that  he  "willed"  his  last  and 
dearest  piece  of  this  kind  of  property,  little  Willy,  to 


168  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Matilda,  "  secin'  she'd  none  of  her  own,  and  knowin* 
she'd  be  glad  to  have  him  and  would  act  right  by 
him."  Alfred  was  quite  appalled  by  this  act  of  testa- 
mentary audacity,  and  gave  vent  to  a  shrill  "  Whew  !" 
and  a  "  Moses  in  the  bulrushes !"  (which  was  a  favorite 
form  of  ejaculation  rarely  as  applicable  as  in  this  case) 
when  he  heard  of  it.  He  confidently  expected  to  see 
his  wife  fly  into  a  rage  and  the  state  that  he  mentally 
characterized  as  "tantrims  and  cavortmen^s,"  but  was 
as  mistaken  in  his  calculations  in  this  matter  as  she  was 
about  him  when  the  question  of  John  Shore  came  up 
between  them  later.  That  capricious  matron  only 
looked  angrily  at  him,  and  said,  "  And  whysomedever 
not,  you  dumb  igiot?  Ain't  I  fitten  to  raise  no  chil- 
dern  ?"  in  a  way  that  made  him  hasten  to  say  in  his 
"  Now^-do-be-a-good-little-girl"  tone  of  cajolement,  "  Of 
course,  Tildy,  and  in  course.  I  ain't  been  a-sayin'  nor 
a-rcmarkin'  no  different,  is  I?"  and  then  later,  seeing 
how  unrelentingly  grim  her  aspect  was,  ''  Childern's 
mighty  handy  to  have  'round.  There  ain't  nothin'  as 
I  knows  on,  now,  handier.  But  you'll  do  well  to  bar  in 
mind,  Tildy,  grown  folks  will  be  grown  folks,  and  chil- 
dern  will  be " 

"O,  shetuj)!  Shet  right  up!"  commanded  Matilda, 
fiercely,  whereupon  Alfred  finished  his  sentence  sotto 
voce,  disliking  of  all  things  to  leave  an  axiom  uncom- 
pleted and  with  frayed  ends,  as  it  were, — "  childern — 
specially  childern." 

The  truth  was,  that  in  her  heart,  strangely  folded, 
like  all  human  hearts,  Matilda  was  pleased  and  flattered, 
as  murderers  have  been  known  to  be,  say  by  the  prefer- 
ence of  an  innocent  child.      She  boasted  of  the  fact 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  169 

among  all  her  acquaintances,  aware  that  she  was  not 
generally  regarded  in  the  most  amiable  light.     She  an- 
nounced with  a  grand  air  that  her  "  Cousin  Bob  had 
knowed  what  he  was  about,"  and   that  she  meant  to 
take  the  child,  though  it  was  "  reely  no  concernment" 
of  hers.     She  enjoyed  for  the  moment  her  role  of  bene- 
factress ;  but  it  had  its  drawbacks.     There  had  been  a 
certain  dignity  in  being  childless, — it  was  such  an  ex- 
ceptional state  of  affairs  in  a  community  of  swarming 
households, — and  she  had  been  vain  of  the  fact  as  albi- 
nos and  giants  and  twelve-fingered  folk  are  vain,  and 
had   indulged   in   much   pharasaical   comment   on  the 
largeness,  and  helplessness,  and  hopelessness  of  this  or 
that  neighbor's  brood  of  younglings, — "  them  Logans," 
or  "  Brown's  gang,"  or  "  Simmons  iz  iz  crowd,"  or  "  the 
Bartlett  brats."      She  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of 
predicting  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death   (on  the 
galloAvs)    for   them,    and   boastingly   thanked   Heaven 
that   she   "hadn't   never    been    one   of  the   sort   that 
goes  and  has  a  dozen   lazy,  ugly  children  a-ramblin', 
and   a-scramblin',    and  fightin',   and  hollerin'    all  over 
the  face  of  the  yearth."      And  now  a  child  had  been 
foisted   upon   her.      The  situation  was  a  serious    one, 
looked  at  from  the  highest  stand-point,  and  from  the 
mean  elevation  of  Matilda's  mind   became  more  than 
serious  for  the   little   creature  in  question — positively 
tragic,  indeed — as  time  went  on.     For  Willy  came,  and 
proved  to  be  not  only  very  young,  helpless,  and  trouble- 
some, but  quite  lame, — an  after-effect  of  scarlet  fever. 
He  would  for  these  very  reasons   have  appealed  irre- 
sistibly to  the  heart  of  a  true  woman,  but  Matilda  was 
not  a  woman  ;  she  was  merely  a  female.     So  far  from 
H  15 


170  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

honoring  the  incessant  drafts  made  upon  the  tenderness 
and  unselfishness  that  Willy's  father  had  supposed  she 
possessed,  she  repudiated  them  more  and  more,  and, 
from  being  at  first  coldly  indifferent,  grew  rapidly  ne- 
glectful, and  finally  often  cruel.  There  was  light 
enough  left  in  the  dark  depths  of  her  soul  even  to 
show  her  what  she  was  doing,  but  the  only  effect  that 
this  ghost  of  a  conscience  had  was  to  hurry  her  into 
some  aggravated  excess  of  unkindness.  The  more  cor- 
dially she  detested  him,  the  more  comfortable  she  felt ; 
and  when  he  was  really  naughty  it  was  a  positive  lux- 
ury to  punish  him, — a  savage  satisfaction,  such  as  only 
the  hate  that  ought  to  be  love  can  give  in  all  its  hideous 
perfection.  Never  did  John  Shore  feel  so  bitterly  con- 
scious of  his  position  in  his  own  house,  or  regret  so 
deeply  that  he  had  put  it  out  of  his  power  to  helj)  or 
befriend  any  one  under  that  roof,  as  when  he  had  to 
stand  by  and  see  some  such  scene,  and  when  Willy  was 
unjustly  as  well  as  severely  assailed  it  was  almost  more 
than  his  generous  and  affectionate  heart  could  bear.  It 
was  a  far  more  painful  ordeal  to  him  than  to  the  child. 
He  would  lie  awake  and  brood  unhappily  over  an  out- 
break of  the  kind  all  night,  for  instance,  while  Willy 
would  be  laughing  again  in  a  few  hours.  Alfred,  who 
longed  for  nothing  so  much  as  peace,  and  was,  besides, 
kindly  disposed  towards  the  child,  Avas  always  ready 
with  excuses  for  his  little  peccadilloes,  and  he  had  two 
forms  of  appeal  which  he  invariably  used  on  all  such 
occasions.  One  was:  "Tildy,  orphins  is  orphins,  pertik- 
iler  when  fathers  and  mothers  is  dead  and  buried;"  the 
other  was  in  constant  use,  being  his  favorite:  "Grown 
folks  will  be  grown  folks,  and  children  will  be  children. 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  17 1 

— specially  children."    J^^either  had  the  least  restraining 
effect  upon  the  person  addressed. 

With  every  hour  of  every  day  of  that  long,  gloomy 
winter  in  which  the  icy  bondage  that  held  captive  the 
world  outside  the  cottage  seemed  less  harsh  and  un- 
lovely than  the  Egyptian  rule  within  it,  which  seemed 
to  bring  his  very  thoughts  into  captivity,  and  often 
drove  John  Shore  out  into  the  sleet  and  snow  and  sent 
him  hobbling  up  and  down  the  Eed  Lane  for  hours  until 
the  fever  and  tumult  of  his  mind  and  heart  had  been 
somewhat  stilled  by  the  white  silence  of  his  surround- 
ings, the  pain  of  his  wound,  and  the  physical  discomfort 
of  the  exposure, — with  every  hour  of  that  intermin- 
able season  the  love  that  John  Shore  had  conceived  for 
the  child  who  had  limped  straight  into  his  heart  on 
the  very  first  day  of  his  return  increased,  deepened, 
strengthened,  until  it  became  a  passion.  While  still 
unable  to  do  so,  he  had  looked  forward  eagerly,  as 
invalids  will,  to  the  time  when  he  should  be  able  to  get 
about  and  go  abroad.  And  when  that  time  came  around 
he  did,  with  the  aid  of  his  crutch,  limp  over  to  this  or 
that  place,  and  was  civilly  enough  received,  if  not  pre- 
cisely with  enthusiasm,  especially  at  first.  But  it  was 
a  busy  community.  No  one  seemed  to  have  time  to 
talk  to  him  after  a  bit,  and  when  they  did,  the  talk 
was  chiefly  of  things  that  did  not  interest  him.  And 
then  he  came  to  feel  himself  distinctly  in  the  way,  ex- 
cept when  he  wandered  over  to  the  sloping,  snow- 
covered  church-yard,  and  sat  for  an  hour  gazing  at  two 
mounds  there, — the  graves  of  his  sweet  dead  wife  and  his 
best  friend.  It  was  all  so  strange,  so  ghostly  strange,  to 
him.    He  was  glad  to  shrink  back  into  the  cottage  again. 


172  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

The  dreary  little  room,  the  black  stove,  even  Matilda's 
sharp,  sour  face,  were  comparatively  cheerful  after  one 
of  these  expeditions.  Coming  in  profoundly  depressed, 
he  would  sink  into  his  chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  lay 
aside  his  crutch,  and  call,  "Here,  Willy  boy,  come  set 
on  Pa-ap's  knee,"  and  presently  would  get  a  sense  of 
restfulness  and  warmth  and  comfort  inexpressibly  heal- 
ing. His  life  was  flowing  again  in  the  old,  familiar 
channel,  but  oh,  the  difference  I  What  a  strong,  free 
current  it  had  once  been !  How  richly  it  had  brimmed 
over  its  green  banks!  How  it  had  rushed  with  eager 
purpose  to  a  desired  end!  And  now  there  remained 
only  the  rocky  bed  of  the  stream,  with  its  tear-worn 
channel,  dry  and  dusty,  except  where  one  little  rill, 
Heaven-given,  ran  crystal  clear.  Was  it  any  wonder 
that  he  pressed  his  dear  little  "  Willy  boy's"  curly  head 
so  fondly  against  his  breast, — "Willy  boy,"  whose  smile 
anil  i^rattle  and  artless  arts  had  sweetened  afresh  an  ex- 
istence grown  intolerably  bitter  and  desolate? — pressed 
it  so  fondly,  indeed,  that  the  child  cried  out,  "  Quit, 
Pa-ap ;  you  hurted  me !"  and  replied,  "  Hurted  you,  honey, 
did  I?  Why,  I  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair  of  your  head  to 
save  my  old  skin,"  and  gave  him  a  dozen  hungering 
kisses  in  proof  thereof  He  no  more  tired  of  Willy's 
voice  than  of  the  sound  of  the  brook  that  rippled  out 
its  rich-throated  music  all  the  summer  lonii;  back  of  Cul- 
bert's  meadow.  Everything  that  he  said  or  did,  thought 
or  felt,  was  of  importance  to  him, — in  short,  he  adored 
the  child.  And  Willy  loved  him,  as  children  commonly 
love,  selfishly,  carelessly  it  may  be,  but  sincerely,  and 
how  sweetly ! 

"  You  and  Pa-ap's  mighty  thick,"  Alfred  would  say. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  173 

good-naturedly,  when  some  evidence  of  their  mutual 
affection  would  strike  him.  "Yes.  Thick  as  thieves," 
Matilda  would  reply.  It  was  a  lucky  thing  for  Willy 
in  some  ways  that  he  had  found  a  friend  in  "Pa-ap,"  as 
he,  too,  called  John  Shore,  for  like  him  he  needed  one 
sorely.  But  in  others  it  was  unfortunate,  for  he  had 
not  found  in  that  friend  a  protector.  Matilda  had  done 
nothing  to  win  the  child's  affection,  it  was  true,  but 
none  the  less  she  resented  his  having  made  a  free  gift 
of  it  to  her  poor,  despised,  and  ojopressed  dependant 
of  a  father-in-law.  If  Willy  had  been  old  enough  and 
wily  enough  to  affect  the  love  and  admiration  that  no 
one  really  felt  for  her,  he  might  have  fared  differently. 
But  it  was  not  in  any  child  of  his  tender  years  and 
true  nature  to  be  attracted  by  a  hard,  bitter,  ugly  face 
full  of  fretful  puckers,  stamped  with  discontent  and 
dulness  in  every  line ;  to  like  to  listen  to  a  harsh  voice 
with  a  most  distressing  rasp  in  it;  to  feel  other  than 
repelled  by  a  temper  always  uncertain  and  frequently 
violent ;  to  pretend  anything.  In  the  same  way  if  John 
Shore  had  been  a  hypocrite  or  knave  he  might  have 
been  a  match  for  his  son's  wife.  But  as  it  was,  the  pair 
were  declared  to  be  "  of  a  feather,"  were  always  ar- 
raigned at  the  same  time,  convicted  of  every  sort  of 
high  crime  and  domestic  misdemeanor,  and  as  yoke- 
fellows were  driven  by  the  same  harsh  mistress,  bore 
the  same  burden,  received  the  same  punishments,  and 
had,  like  the  early  Christians,  as  a  compensation  for 
much  persecution,  "all  things  in  common."  This  was 
especially  the  case  when  Matilda  one  day  in  mid- winter 
(after  John  Shore  was  able  to  get  about)  suddenly  an- 
nounced to  them  that  she  preferred  their  "  room   to 

15* 


174  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

their  company,"  and  that  they  might  "git"  into  the 
adjoining  shed.  Matilda  had  certainly  no  idea  of  con- 
ferring a  favor  upon  either  of  them,  and  Alfred  was 
more  surprised  than  pleased  when  he  heard  of  the  pro- 
posed change  at  supper, — ^remonstrated,  even,  with  a 
"  Now,  Tildy,  you  haint  never  a-goin'  to  do  that ;  no. 
It's  jest  an  idee  uv  yourn,  that's  all,"  hut  had  the  gag 
connubial  promptly  popped  into  his  mouth  and  was 
silenced;  but  all  the  same  it  was  the  greatest  kindness 
she  could  possibly  have  done  them,  for  it  ensured  the 
peace  and  privacy  they  could  have  got  in  no  other  way. 
The  process  of  moving  into  it  was  one  that  excited 
great  interest  in  the  breasts  of  the  banished  pair.  "We 
ain't  got  but  two  sound,  dependable  legs  between  us, 
Willy,  and  the  two  of  us  '11  have  to  limp  about  pretty 
lively  to  git  ev'ything  moved  in.  When  that's  done, 
I'll  take  command,"  said  John  Shore.  This  he  did,  and 
set  to  work  at  once  to  make  the  place  not  only  habit- 
able, but  as  pleasant  as  his  ver}^  limited  means  of  pro- 
ducing ffisthetic  results  would  permit.  He  must  have 
inherited  some  of  Sailor  Jack's  "  handiness,"  for  he  suc- 
ceeded better  than  the  Israelites  in  making  bricks 
without  straw,  and,  inspired  by  love  and  wit,  accom- 
plished the  impossible,  and  turned  the  dismal  little  shed 
into  a  fairl}''  comfortable  room.  The  ingenuity  and 
variety  of  the  contrivances  that  he  summed  up  as 
"fix7;i^?ifs"  brought  him  and  them  into  notice.  Matilda 
sneered  at  them,  the  neighbors  ridiculed  them  in  a 
kindly  fashion.  Jinny  Hodges  came  over  to  see  them, 
and  took  up  a  whole  precious  afternoon  with  a  "  dis- 
coursement"  upon  ever^'thing  in  general  and  "John's 
awful  smartness"  in  particular,  and  then  went  home, 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  175 

and  sent  back  a  most  welcome  contribution  to  the  new- 
establishment  in  the  shape  of  a  box-patterned  quilt  and 
two  jars  of  blackberry  jam.  John  whitewashed  the 
walls,  put  in  a  window,  rehung  and  listed  the  door,  and 
put  up  a  rude  fireplace  to  begin  with.  The  lighter  and 
brighter  touches  were  gradually  given.  '' Burygyard" 
was  put  well  up  on  the  door-post  for  fear  of  Matilda's 
appropriately  green-eyed  and  cruel-minded  cat.  The 
photograph  of  Jackson  that  Jim  Wilkins  had  given  him 
and  another  of  General  Lee  were  tacked  to  the  wall. 
(Differently  christened  they  would  have  passed  any- 
where for  Lafitte  and  Captain  Kidd.)  Below  them  was 
nailed  a  picture  that  had  greatly  taken  his  fancy  because 
of  some  real  or  fancied  resemblance  to  his  wife, — a  flam- 
ing chromo  advertisement  of  a  patent  medicine,  good- 
naturedly  given  him  by  the  druggist  of  a  neighboring 
town.  Alfred,  coming  in  one  day  and  keeping  one  eye  on 
the  door  all  during  his  brief  stay,  made  bold  to  present 
them  with  a  chair  that  had  once  had  a  cane  bottom, — a 
present  that  his  father  received  with  beaming  satisfac- 
tion, and  skilfully  mended  and  painted  that  night.  He 
turned  an  old  goods-box  up  on  end  as  a  wash-stand, 
scoured  a  rusty  tin  basin  that  he  had  bought  for  a  song 
at  "  the  stoV'  and  put  it  best  side  out  on  top  of  the  box 
with  a  bit  of  yellow  soap,  and,  not  content  with  this 
magnificent  provision  for  his  comfort,  "rigged  up"  a 
roller  for  a  crash  towel  that  he  had  privately  determined 
to  ask  for.  These  with  the  bed  solved  the  question  of 
furniture  for  the  room  most  satisfactorily,  and  only  one 
eyesore  remained, — an  abandoned  stove, — that,  think  as 
he  would,  he  could  make  neither  useful  nor  ornamental. 
He  looked  at  it  many  thousands  of  times  with  ever  in- 


176  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

creasing  disgust,  until  he  at  last  got  an  inspiration,  some 
months  later,  and  forthwith  took  off  the  lids,  planted 
and  trained  creepers  over  it  far  more  successfully  than 
if  it  had  been  a  majolica  jardiniere,  enlivened  it  on  top 
with  petunias,  geraniums,  and  one  fine  calla  lily,  and 
made  of  it  eventually  a  small  terraced  garden,  of  which 
he  was  naturally  very  proud.  lie  had  the  growing 
touch  wnth  flowers,  as  was  shown  by  the  luxuriant  way 
in  which  the  plants  thrived  in  and  overflowed  from  a 
tin  bucket  with  slits  cut  in  the  bottom  and  sides  (to  en- 
sure proper  drainage)  suspended  in  his  window, — plants 
that  would  have  made  a  point  of  dying  in  any  drawing- 
room,  and  could  scarcely  have  been  kept  alive  by  a 
Scotch  gardener  in  a  model  greenhouse. 

The  pleasure  that  he  got  from  doing  all  this  was 
only  equalled  by  Willy's  delight  in  seeing  him  do  it. 
Half  hel}),  half  hindrance,  the  little  fellow  dogged 
his  every  footstep,  prattled  without  cessation,  admired, 
wondered,  fetched  and  carried,  ran  nails  in  his  bare  feet, 
almost  choked  himself  with  a  mouthful  of  tacks,  did 
everything  that  ought  not  to  have  been  done,  and  left 
undone  almost  everything  that  he  was  told  to  do,  not 
being  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  his  gifted 
friend  for  one  moment  while  he  was  engaged  in  such 
fascinating  tasks.  And  what  a  moment  it  was  when 
they  were  were  "  all  cleared  up,"  and  the  room  had  been 
made  spotlessly  clean,  and  Jinny  Hodge's  gorgeous 
quilt  had  been  laid  over  the  bed  and  neatl}^  tucked 
in,  and  John  Shore  embraced  "Willy  and  announced, 
"  Honey,  it's  done  done^and  it's  fur  you  I've  done  it,  and 
here  we'll  live  together  all  pleasant  and  kind  always." 
It  w\is  such  a  great  occasion,  indeed,  that  they  were 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  177 

moved  to  celebrate  it  especially,  and  John  Shore,  who 
had  carefully  sought  in  the  woods  and  brought  in  and 
stored  quite  a  little  supply  of  pine-knots  and  fagots, 
went  to  the  place  where  he  had  hidden  them  away  out 
of  Matilda's  sight,  and  soon  had  a  great  sheet  of  flame 
crackling  and  roaring  up  the  chimney.  And  then  he 
went  out  of  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  and  came  back 
wiping  his  lips,  and  dropped  into  his  chair,  and  put 
Willy  on  the  stool  he  had  made  for  him,  and  buttered  a 
huge  slice  of  bread  with  a  thick  layer  of  blackberry 
jam  on  top  for  the  child,  and  they  talked  and  laughed, 
and  talked  again,  and  then  Pap  got  out  his  violin  and 
played  until  their  house-warming  was  over,  which  was 
only  when  Matilda  rapped  sharply  on  the  wall  and 
bade  them  go  to  bed  "right  straight  off."  "We've 
done  got  shut  uv  her  some,  anyways,  and  this  here  is 
our  little  home  now,  Willy  boy.  Does  yer  like  it?" 
whispered  Pap,  after  this  noise  ceased. 

"Mightily,  Pa-ap,"  replied  Willy,  looking  his  pleas- 
antest  and  smiling  his  sweetest  as  he  glanced  about  him. 
"  It's  grand  !"  Willy's  age  and  position  and  very  lim- 
ited experience  precluded  his  instituting  the  comparisons 
that  might  have  been  odious.  Anything  more  splendid 
and  perfectly  satisfactory  than  this  poor  place  he  could 
not  even  have  imagined ;  and  from  this  moment  it 
became  his  world,  and  was  set  exactly  in  the  centre  of 
the  earth.  It  was  a  paradise  for  him.  A  bright,  loving 
little  fellow,  he  had  pined  under  the  neglect  and  harsh- 
ness, the  restraint  and  dulness,  of  his  environment,  and 
now  here  was,  all  at  once,  a  new  heaven  and  earth  only 
a  few  feet  away  from  the  old  one  actually,  but  morally 
on   another  planet.      Such   a  busy,  happy,  delightful 


178  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

place  as  it  was,  too.  It  kept  him  busy  and  happy  and 
delighted  to  keep  pace  with  its  wonderful  life  at  all, 
there  was  so  much  to  see  and  do  and  hear  and  to  try  to 
understand.  And  John  Shore  was  busy  and  happy,  too. 
There  were  kites  and  traps  to  be  made,  sleds  to  mend, 
walnuts  to  shell.  There  Avere  apples  and  persimmons 
and  nuts  to  eat.  "  Pa-ap"  would  salt  rabbit-skins,  or  clean 
his  gun,  or  splice  his  fishing-tackle,  or  mend  his  clothes 
with  the  aid  of  a  leather  thimble  of  his  own  construc- 
tion, a  bit  of  cork,  a  jack-knife,  a  cake  of  wax,  stray 
bits  of  cord  or  pack-thread,  and  a  huge  needle.  Willy 
would  nurse  his  kitten,  or  feed  his  bushy-tailed,  alert 
squirrel,  or  try  to  "  split  up  kindlings"  with  a  hatchet 
on  the  worst  possible  terms  always  with  its  handle,  or 
roll  idly  about  on  the  floor  watching  "  Pa-ap's"  perform- 
ances and  enlivening  the  occupation  with  his  clear, 
treble  pipings  and  prattlings  about  whatever  had  hap- 
pened during  the  day.  And  then  "  Burygyard"  had  to 
be  educated.  The  schoolmaster  was  not  abroad  on  the 
Mountain,  and  neither  John  Shore  nor  Willy  could  read 
or  write;  but  they  knew  many  other  things  that  they 
felt  to  be  of  far  more  importance  than  the  doubtful 
glory  of  being  "  a  scholard,"  and  were  far  from  finding 
their  ignorance  oppressive. 

John,  indeed,  was  not  as  conservative  in  his  view  of 
this  question  as  Dadd}^  Culbert,  who  always  told  a 
story  in  this  connection  of  a  man  who  insisted  on  being 
educated,  and  forged,  and  was  finally  hanged,  and  de- 
duced from  it :  "  This  here's  what  comes  of  readin'  and 
writin'."  lie  had  even  determined  to  learn  a  great  deal, 
that  he  might  teach  Willy  something  that  might  lead 
to  his  "  betterment,"  and  with  this  in  view  had  taken 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  179 

to  studying  carefully  the  circus  posters  at  the  black- 
smith's shop.  But  this  was  a  tentative  process,  into 
which  he  could  not  throw  himself  with  the  heartiness 
and  sense  of  mastery  that  characterized  his  eiforts  to 
impart  accomplishments  to  "Burygyard."  He  had 
heard  a  bird  in  Texas  whistle  Dixie  "  right  off,"  and  fol- 
low it  up  with  the  Star-Spangled  Banner,  changing  its 
note  and  coat  with  as  little  scruple  as  the  Yicar  ©f  Bray. 
And  that  had  fired  his  ambition,  and  he  and  Willy  had 
agreed  that  their  bird  could,  would,  and  should  do  the 
same  thing,  and  thought  it  of  the  first  importance  that 
he  should  have  a  lesson  every  day,  no  matter  what  be- 
sides was  done  or  left  undone.  So  every  night  Pap 
would  get  out  his  violin,  tune  it  carefully,  and  play  the 
first  five  notes  of  Dixie  over  and  over  again  for  about 
an  hour,  encouraging,  rebuking,  admonishing  his  pupil 
the  while  with  untiring  zeal  and  faith  in  the  ultimate 
result.  And  "  Burygyard,"  his  cage  on  Willy's  stool, 
would  indulge  in  a  series  of  hoppings,  and  shirkings, 
and  perverse  lurkings  in  corners  that  aggravated  his 
master  the  more  because  he  would  sometimes  sing  the 
strain  as  well  as  Mario  could  have  done  it,  three  or  four 
times  in  succession,  though  he  showed  generally  an  in- 
veterate tendency  to  stop  after  the  third  note,  and  burst 
into  a  brilliant  improvisation  of  his  own,  which,  as  he 
doubtless  knew,  was  much  better  worth  hearing.  And 
Willy  would  clap  his  hands  for  joy,  and  praise,  and 
scold,  and  laugh,  and  shout,  assisting  at  all  the  sessions 
of  Burygyard's  night-school  with  an  interest  that  never 
flagged,  and  an  enthusiasm  that  was  perfectly  infectious. 
And  then  Pap  would  do  "a  little  prac^ysin',"  and  the 
old  house  would  ring  again  with  the  old  melodies.    And 


180  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

then  he  would  as  like  as  not  play  at  leap-frog  with 
AYilly,  the  latter  havinj^  a  surprising  fancy  for  that 
particular  game  rather  than  some  other  better  adapted 
to  the  lame  and  halt.  Matilda  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall  listening  to  the  hum  of  their  voices  and 
catching  bursts  of  sweet  child-laughter  would  get  an- 
other wrinkle  in  her  wicked  heart  and  about  her  thin 
lips  (finding  them  so  happy  in  spite  of  her),  and,  rising, 
she  would  go  to  their  door,  and  by  merely  putting  her 
head  in  for  a  moment,  scare  away  all  the  contentment 
and  cheerfulness  that,  like  the  firelight,  had  filled  the 
room  from  floor  to  ceiling.  They  probably  rushed  up 
the  chimney  to  get  out  of  her  way  merel}^,  for  they 
generally  came  back  again  as  soon  as  the  head  was 
gone  and  the  door  closed  again.  And  at  worst  in  an 
hour  the  fitful  radiance  of  the  pine-knots  showed  Pap's 
serene  face  and  Will}^  nestling  close  to  him — a  rosy, 
beautiful  beatitude, — Blessed  are  little  children  and  safe 
in  the  arms  of  God — as  it  flickered  over  to  the  bed  in 
which  both  were  lying  asleep. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  181 


YI. 


"  The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents  ; 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly  right. 
Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious  quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself  afresh." 

Geraint  and  Enid. 

The  nights  were  still  cold  and  wintry,  but  it  was 
bright  enough  in  the  shed-room,  although  Matilda  would 
have  scouted  the  idea  of  allowing  its  occupants  a  candle, 
and  so  warm  that  Willy's  cheeks  glowed  crimson  as  the 
apples  set  to  toast  before  the  fire  while  he  clambered 
up  into  Pap's  lap  to  "  hear  stories."  He  made  such  a 
stimulating  audience,  with  his  shining  eyes  (the  bluest, 
brightest,  sweetest  eyes  ever  seen.  Pap  thought)  and 
bis  eager,  excited  face,  that  these  narratives,  from  a 
nucleus  or  verbal  protoplasm  of  one  dimly-remembered, 
moss-grown  tale  about  a  bear  and  a  bad  boy  that  he  had 
heard  in  his  childhood,  developed  and  extended  until 
the  whole  field  of  Pap's  life  and  experience  was  covered, 
his  memory  ransacked,  his  power  of  invention  severely 
taxed.  There  were  long-forgotten  traditions  handed 
down  in  his  family  about  "  how  they  usened  to  do  in 
them  early  times," — of  how  the  little  babies  were 
cradled  in  logs  hollowed  out  to  receive  them ;  of  the 
Indian  raids;  of  how  the  settlers  had  been  glad  to  pay 
a  cow  and  calf  for  one  bushel  of  salt   brought  over 

16 


182  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Braddock's  trail  from  "  beyant  the  country  beyant  the 
Eidge, — 'waj'  fur  off  yonder,  "Willy  boy." 

'•How  fur?"  '-Willy  boy"  would  insist  on  knowing. 
"  Could  you  walk  there  in  a  day,  in  two  days,  in  a  week, 
a  year?  If  you  took  four  horses  and  harnessed  'em  to 
a  wagon  and  whipped  'em  up  all  the  time,  could  you 
git  there  by  Christmas?"  It  was  only  when  Pap  had 
said  he  "  reckoned  not"  that  it  seemed  useless  to  Willy 
to  pursue  the  inquir}^,  and  the  mysterious  country  im- 
mediately became  fairjMand, — a  region  of  wonders  and 
delights,  about  which  he  was  never  tired  of  thinking. 
And  then  there  was  "  Witch  Parsons,"  an  old,  old,  crooked, 
wicked  woman,  who  lived  in  a  cabin  in  the  heart  of 
a  wood,  and  had  a  black  dog,  and  a  black  cat,  and  the 
evil  eye.  Willy  would  blanch  as  he  heard  how  she  was 
feared  and  obeyed,  and  tremble  a  little,  and  devour  all 
the  details  Pap  could  give  of  her  terrible  powers  and 
potions  and  general  awfulness.  It  was  almost  too  fasci- 
nating to  hear  how  the  witch,  when  she  wanted  to  spite 
certain  neighbors,  would  make  their  cows  go  dry  by  an 
infallible  process  of  her  own,  which  consisted  in  hanging 
a  new  towel  over  her  back  door  with  a  pin  stuck  in  it  for 
every  cow  to  be  "conjured,"  and  then  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon  going  out  at  night  to  finish  her  work.  She  had 
been  seen — "folks  had  heerd"  her,  often — muttering  her 
diabolical  incantations  and  stripping  from  the  pendent 
fringe  of  the  towel  buckets  of  milk  that  ought  to  have 
been  in  the  honest  udders  of  ruminant  animals  miles 
away. 

Why  didn't  they  kill  her?  Why  didn't  folks  conjure 
her  cows?  Why  was  the  towel  hung  on  the  back  door 
always  ?    And  what  w^ould  have  happened  if  the  fringe 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  183 

had  been  cut  off,  say  by  a  sharp  boy  that  had  "  crep'  up 
unbeknownst"  before  the  witch's  time  came  for  milk- 
ing? Willy  wanted  to  know.  He  could  not  get  enough 
of  "  Mother  Parsons,"  as  "  folks  that  was  'feared  of  her" 
called  her,  and  was  disgusted  when  Pap,  in  telling  the 
great  cow  story  for  about  the  seventy-fifth  time,  got  a 
trifle  mechanical  in  his  delivery  throughout,  and  made 
matters  worse  by  calling  the  heroine  Mother  Brown 
forsooth.  And  then  there  were  Pap's  travels,  which 
had  really  been  quite  extensive,  and  seemed  to  Willy's 
starved  imagination  to  combine  the  territorial  sweep 
of  Captain  Cook's  with  the  remarkably  interes*ting  per- 
sonal adventures  of  Baron  Munchausen  or  Grulliver. 
"  You've  been  more  miles  'en  you  can  count  to  save 
your  life,  ain't  you,  Pa-ap  ?  There  ain't  many  places  as 
you  don't  know  whur  they're  at,  is  there?"  he  would 
comment  admiringly,  more  and  more  convinced  of  his 
friend's  immeasurable  superiority  to  all  the  people  he 
had  ever  known.  And  then  there  was  "the  war," 
which,  although  a  most  thrilling  theme,  was  not  as 
uniformly  interesting  as  any  of  the  others.  The  benign 
and  gracious  face  that  the  old  man  turned  towards  him 
when  relating  his  personal  experience  of  and  share  in 
various  scenes  left  so  much  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of 
unbridled  ferocity  that  Willy  could  not  but  feel  that  he 
had  never  been  so  disappointing  as  in  the  role  of  war- 
rior. There  were  bits  in  the  raids  and  skirmishes  that 
were  delightful,  but  the  battles  were  mere  sound  and 
fury,  with  not  half  the  action  and  gore  that  he  thirsted 
for.  "How  many  uv  the  Yankees'  heads  did  you  cut 
off  to  oust,  Pa-ap?"  he  would  ask,  turning  around 
eagerly  from  a  fixed  and  agreeable  contemplation  of 


184  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

the  apples  browning  and  sputtering  and  wrinkling  in  a 
row  on  the  hearth  below.  And  his  face  would  fall 
when  the  mild,  drawling  reply  reached  him :  "  Why, 
none,  my  son.  I  fit  under  old  Blue  Light  yonder  fur 
four  year,  but " 

"  Not  nary  one  ?"  interrupted  Willy. 

"No,  hone}',  not  none  at  all.  I  was  precious  glad 
to  keep  my  own  on  my  shoulders,  I  kin  tell  you,  with- 
out troublin'  'bout  theirn.  He  was  a  one  fur  puttin' 
his  men  in  tight  places  and  then  pray  in'  'em  out,  shore 
as  you  are  born.  Jim  Wilkins  usened  to  say,  'The  gen- 
eral's on  his  knees,  boys,  and  that's  a  sign  that  some  of 
us  will  be  on  our  backs  soon  with  no  way  to  turn  over ; 
but  not  sufferin'  from  cramp,  to  speak  of,  from  lyin'  in 
one  position  so  long.'  Jim  was  a  joker  always.  Poor 
Jim." 

"  Why  didn't  you  jes'  run  right  up  to  the  Yankees 
and  cut  'em  in  two  this  er  way  ?"  said  Willy,  plunging 
forward  and  swishing  savagely  at  the  rusty  andirons, 
which  had  lost  their  legs  during  the  war,  if  not  in  con- 
sequence of  it,  and  were  carefully  propped  up  at  the 
back  on  two  bricks. 

"  Well,  I  done  some  right  smart  runnin',  Willy  boy, 
but  it  warn't  always  that  way,''  replied  the  old  soldier, 
with  a  hearty  "Haw!  haw!  haw!"  that  was  full  of 
enjoyment,  and  gradually  subsided  into  convulsive 
chuckles  which  brought  out  the  natural  twinkle  in  his 
eye  strongly  and  left  it  there  for  some  time. 

In  the  fulness  of  the  intimacy  that  sprang  up  between 
them,  John  Shore  laid  aside  for  the  first  time  the  reserve 
that  had  led  him  to  maintain  a  sacred  silence  about 
everything  that  related  to  the  supreme  joy  and  grief 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  185 

of  his  life.  And  thouo;h  he  had  avoided  mentionino;  so 
much  as  his  wife's  name  ever  since  her  death,  and  had 
never  been  able  to  speak  of  her  to  her  own  son  even 
(still  less  to  hear  her  spoken  of  by  others),  he  now  got 
comfort  and  pleasure  in  talking  freely  of  her  to  this 
tender,  simple,  uncritical  confidant  who  leaned  against 
his  breast,  and  held  his  hand,  and  loved  him.  Willy 
expressed  no  sympathy,  and  would  only  occasionally  give 
utterance  to  some  of  his  high,  narrow  child-thoughts, 
extending  only  a  little  way  on  either  side,  but  often 
taking  in  the  heaven  above  him  and  the  depths  beneath ; 
but  it  was  a  grateful  contrast  to  the  effusive  or  offensive 
speech  of  others,  and  beguiled  Pap  continually  into 
further  confidences.  Matilda  could  be  heard  scolding 
angrily  within,  and  the  wind  roared  without  as  it  seized 
and  shook  the  old  cottage  and  swept  on  to  heap  the 
snow  high  above  the  sweet  dead  wife's  grave  on  the 
night  that  Pap  first  laid  bare  his  heart  and  showed  the 
love  there  that  could  not  die. 

"  You  see,  "Willy,  this  was  the  way  of  it.  From  the 
fust  moment  I  seed  that  girl  she  was  my  inthought. 
And  she's  been  that  ever  sence.  And  I  was  drawed  to 
her  that  powerful  that  ef  I  was  workin'  five  miles  off 
and  she  wanted  me  had  I  knowed  it  and  went  to  her. 
And  she  was  the  same.  And  when  I  found  as  how  she 
felt  like  I  did,  I  mighty  nigh  went  crazy  for  joy,  and 
the  world  warn't  a  big  enough  place  to  hold  me.  But 
her  father,  he  was  opposed  to  me,  and  forbid  me  comin' 
'round.  En  she  begged  and  prayed  to  him  to  change 
his  mind,  fitten  to  melt  Masanutton.  And  he  wouldn't 
let  her  have  nothin'  to  do  with  me.  Then  I  sez  to  her, 
'Ally,' — her  name  was  Alice,   but  I  called  her  Ally, 

16* 


186  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RJDOE. 

mostly, — I  sez,  '  There's  no  reason  fur  him  actin'  so,  it's 
jes'  obstination,  and  you've  got  to  make  a  choosement 
between  us.'  En  she  sez,  'John,  we'll  wait.'  En  we 
did  wait,  and  it  warn't  no  use,  fur  waitin'  ain't  never 
yet  cured  obstination.  En  she  was  still  fur  waitin', 
and  pretty  nigh  cried  her  eyes  out  'bout  it.  But  I 
wouldn't ;  en  at  last  I  got  her  talked  'round,  and  I  got 
a  two-horse  fix  and  we  runned  away  to  Harper's  Ferrj- 
and  got  married.  'Pears  like  it  was  yesterday."  (A 
pause.) 

"And  then  we  come  back  together,  and  there  she  set, 
— the  prettiest  thing  in  Virginia,  and  the  sweetest.  En 
her  lap  was  full  of  oranges  I'd  buyed  fur  her  at  the 
bridge,  and  we  was  both  eatin'  gingerbread  and  holdin' 
hands, — leastways  one  hand.  I  had  a  'cordion  in  the 
other,  and"  was  runnin'  up  and  down  it,  sorter  blowin' 
out  my  feelin's  like,  you  see.  She  always  did  love  to 
hear  me  play  the  'cordion.  I  was  prouder  'n  a  peacock 
with  two  tails  that  day,  and  as  happy  as  the  Lord 
makes  'em.     'Pears  like  it  was  a  thousand  years  ago." 

"  Did  you  come  here,  to  this  house  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Pap,  slipping  lower  in  his  chair  and 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  fire.  "  This  was  our  home.  And 
I'd  fixed  up  right  smart  fur  her  'bout  the  house  all  I 
could,  and  made  her  a  beautiful  flower-garden.  I 
knowed  she  loved  flowers.  I  took  a  power  uv  trouble 
(only  it  warn't  no  trouble  bein'  done  for  her)  with  that 
there  garden.  There  was  blue-flags  from  the  woods, 
and  white  lilies,  and  sweet  pinks,  and  mournin'-brides, 
and  bleedin'-hearts,  and  marygolds.  I  got  them  'bout 
here.  And  I  set  out  five  big  bushes  of  snow-balls,  and 
three  of  white  lilocks.     She  hadn't  never  heerd  tell  of 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  187 

a  white  lilock  till  then.  And  I  got  some  yaller  'stur- 
tiums,  that  comes  from  the  sea,  from  a  gentleman  that 
keeps  a  garden  in  Winston.    And  I  planted  her  favoright 

rose  under  her  winder.     It  bloomed  the  day  she" 

(Another  pause.)  "  Well,  she  was  as  pleased  as  the  next 
one  when  she  seed  'em,  and  there  warn't  nothin'  she 
didn't  notice,  and  she  sez,  '■  You've  done  done  all  this 
fur  me,  ain't  you,  John,'  and  kissed  me,  and  then  we 
went  into  the  house,  and  she  was  better  pleased  yet 
when  she  seed  that,  and  she  took  off  her  bonnet  and 
hung  it  up  and  set  down  in  the  new  rockin'-chair,  and 
she  looked  out  of  the  winder  and  sez,  *'  How  sweet  the 
blocks  smells.'  I  ain't  never  been  able  to  suffer  'em 
since.  En  then  she  looks  at  me  smilin'  and  sez,  '  John, 
my  darlin',  we've  tied  a  knot  with  our  tongue  this  day 
we  kain't  undo  with  our  teeth.  Do  you  know  that  ?' 
En  then  I  took  her  on  my  lap, — she  was  a  little  thing, 
Willy,  not  much  bigger  'n  you, — 'n  I  sez  to  her,  '  I  never 
will  want  to  try.  Ally.'  En  she  sez  to  me,  '  ]^o  more 
will  I,  dear  John,'  sez  she.  And  we  never  did."  (Another 
pause.)  "  T  wuz  in  the  wagon  business  then,  and  carried 
on  at  the  cross-roads  'hove  here  a  piece.  I  carried  five 
men  the  year  'round,  'n  there  warn't  no  better  wagons 
wuz  ever  turned  out.  The  axles  seemed  jes'  to  come 
plum'  of  theirselves  in  them  days,  Willy,  and  everything 
was  goin'  right  with  me,  when  all  to  oust  trouble  come 
and  nothin'  ain't  gone  right  sence.  Ally  she  got  sick. 
It  was  all  the  trouble  she  ever  give  me.  And  she 
wouldn't  never  'low  she  was  more  'n  tired.  But  I 
knowed.  I  knowed !  It  was  a  breast-trouble, — some 
calls  it  the  consumption.  I  done  all  I  knowed.  I  reckon 
I  got  every  medicine  that's  made  for  it.    There  was  one 


188  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

splendid  one, — '  Seven  Barks'  was  the  name ;  it  was  the 
grandest  thing  you  ever  could  want.  It  cured  every- 
thing,— the  consumption,  and  scrofily,  and  pneumony, 
and  all  kinds  of  fevers.  You  couldn't  mention  nothin' 
it  didn't  cure.  The  paper  that  come  with  every  bottle 
said  so.  You  may  know  it  was  good :  it  cost  fifty  cents 
a  bottle." 

"  AVho-ce !  Every  bottle  ?  What  a  heap  of  money, 
Pa-ap !     I  wish  I  had  fifty  cents.'' 

"You're  right  there,  Willy.  Well,  I  give  her  that  and 
give  it  to  her.  There  was  a  closet  full  of  the  empty 
bottles;  but  it  never  cured  her,  someway.  I  dunno 
why,  'cept  it  was  the  mysterousness  uv  dealin's.  All  the 
comfort  I  had  was  working  extry  to  get  it,  though,  and 
I'd  of  had  it  cf  I'd  had  to  burn  the  sto'  down  where 
'twas  sold,  ef  I  couldn't  of  got  it  no  other  way." 

"  Of  cose,  Pa-ap.  You  couldn't  do  no  defferent,  and 
her  so  sick." 

"  But  it  warn't  no  use.  She  left  me."  (A  long  pause.) 
"  This  here  is  a  strange,  mysterous  world  of  ourn,  Willy. 
I've  set  and  studied  and  studied  over  that  thing,  but  I 
ain't  never  seed  the  why  nor  the  wherefore.  A  body 
can't  understand  it.  I  used  to  look  'round  at  my  little 
baby, — Alfred  that  is  now, — sleepin'  so  peaceful  in  his 
cradle  (that  was  at  night  'fore  I  put  out  the  light),  and 
I'd  think  to  myself  how  strange  it  was  as  how  he  might 
be  blowed  out  like  a  candle  by  death.  But  I  hadn't  never 
no  idea  'twould  be  the  mother.  It  looked  like  it  was  on- 
possible  to  the  last.  But  it  come."  (A  deep,  patient  sigh 
and  a  silence.)  "  And  everything  has  went  wrong  sence 
she  left  me.  I  wuz  so  weakened  down.  I  couldn't  ketch 
hold  of  nothin'  fur  a  long  while.    And  then  the  chances 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  189 

was  occupied.  And — and  I've  went  wrong,  too,  Willy. 
I  ain't  gone  straight, — Lord !  no.  Don't  you  think  it. 
You  see  I  ios'  my  linch-pin,  'n  I've  ben  jes'  rattlin'  'long 
fur  a  break-down  ever  since.  A  wagon  kain't  run  right 
without  a  linch-pin,  no  way  you  fix  it,  now  can  it? 
The  mysterousness  of  dealin's, — that's  it.  I  can't  git 
no  purchase  on  it.  Her  so  good,  and  both  of  us  so 
happy." 

"  Whurze  she  gone  to  now  ?  Whurze  she  at  right 
now,  this  minnit,  Pa-ap,  say?" 

"  She  went  to  heaven,  my  son ;  shore  and  certain  as 
there  is  a  heaven,  she  has  went  to  it." 

"  How  did  she  git  there  ?" 

"  The  Good  Man  sent  for  her,"  said  Pap ;  and  Willy 
understood;  for,  strange  to  say,  this  is  the  title  univer- 
sally given  to  God  by  the  mountaineers,  with  a  per- 
fectly reverent  intention.  He  is  rarely  called  by  any 
other,  except  when  they  profane  His  name. 

"  Don't  you  feel  bad.  Maybe  he'll  send  fur  you,  too, 
Pa-ap,"  said  Willy. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  fitten  to  go  ;  that's  the  trouble.  And  I 
ain't  fitten  to  stay,  neither.  I'm  no  good,  noways  you 
fix  it.  This  here  life  of  ourn's  a  hard,  hard  job,  honey. 
You've  got  to  have  more  patience  'n  a  courtin'  man's 
horse  to  git  through  it.  En  I  don't  see  why  I  was  brung 
here.  I  dunno  when  I'm  goin'  to  be  gone.  I  dunno 
nothin',  'n  nobody  don't  know  no  more  than  me." 

After  this  long  talk  between  them,  no  further  allusion 
was  made  to  the  subject  for  a  long  while.  Pap  probably 
thought  that  Willy  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  One 
lovely  spring  morning,  though,  when  they  had  gone 
together  to  the  wood, — one  of  those  days  that  seem  to 


190  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

draw  out  tender  memories  as  inevitably  as  buds,  or 
leaves,  or  delicious  earthy  smells  that  cannot  be  traced 
to  any  one  spot, — the  child  surprised  him  by  referring 
to  it  of  his  own  accord.  They  had  come  to  a  halt  at  a 
place  about  which  there  was  a  perfect  tangle  of  grape- 
vines, all  in  bloom,  and  breathing  out,  as  it  were,  their 
exquisitely  delicate  and  penetrating  odor.  Pap,  after 
seating  himself,  had  fallen  into  a  reverie,  and  had  paid 
no  attention  to  Willy.  "  What's  you  thinkin'  'bout, 
Pa-ap?  Is  you  thinkin'  'bout  herf  said  Willy,  after 
amusing  himself  in  various  ways  for  some  time,  and 
coming  back  to  find  his  friend  still  silent  and  absorbed. 

"Yes,  honey,  I  was.  This  here's  our  weddin'  day 
that  was,"  Pap  replied.  He  said  no  more,  and  there 
was  another  silence  ending  with  a  deep  sigh, 

"  Is  yer  got  a  misery  in  yer  head  ?  Hainh  ?"  inquired 
Willy.     "  I'll  rub  it  for  you." 

"  i^o,  Willy  boy.  I'm  jes'  tired,  that's  all.  Don't  you 
werrit  'bout  me.  I  gits  beat  out  sometimes.  Ef  she — 
ef  Ally  had  of  lived,  it  don't  seem  to  me  like  I'd  be  as 
tired  as  I  mostly  am." 

The  sunset  was  a  very  beautiful  one  that  evening, 
and  Pap  and  Willy  saw  it  together  from  the  wood-pile 
where  they  had  been  busily  engaged  for  an  hour  pre- 
vious providing  for  the  next  day's  fires.  The  work 
was  done  and  the  wood  arranged  in  separate  heaps  to 
be  carried  in-doors  later.  A  kite  sailing  above  the  next 
field  had  fully  occupied  AYilly's  attention  for  some  mo- 
ments, and  when  his  interest  in  it  was  exhausted  he 
ran  up  to  Pap,  whose  axe  was  at  rest,  and  who  was 
leaning  on  his  crutch. 

"Pa-ap,"  said  Willy,  calling  out  to  him  as  he  ap- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  191 

proached,  and  pointing  upward,  "Alice  is  up  yonder. 
Ain't  she,  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  said  Pap. 

"  Whurabouts  ?     Whurabouts  ?" 

"  I  kain't  rightly  say ;  but  she's  there." 

"  She  ain't  in  that  white  place,"  persisted  Willy,  still 
pointing.  "  And  she  ain't  in  them  black,  ugly  clouds,  is 
she  ?  She's  somewhurs  in  the  blue,  ain't  she,  Pa-ap  ?" 
the  child  added,  eagerly,  turning  his  rosy,  smiling  face 
up  to  the  solemn  sky.  Pap  looked  up  into  the  blue,  and 
then  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and,  stooping  forward, 
got  another  stick  of  wood.  "  The  ground's  too  wet  for 
ploughin',"  he  said,  presently.  A  moment  later  he  took 
a  seat  on  a  log  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  distant  moun- 
tains, set  along  the  horizon  like  great  pedestals  for  si- 
lence. The  sun  was  dying  like  a  saint  in  peaceful  glory 
in  the  west.  The  bats  were  circling  above  his  head. 
The  rosy  clouds  in  the  east  were  fading  into  gray.  He 
did  not  know  how  long  he  sat  there ;  but  Willy  played 
about  him  for  a  long  while,  until,  at  last,  tired  of  blow- 
ing his  penny  whistle  and  playing  marbles  alone,  and 
of  getting  no  answers,  above  all,  from  the  one  person 
whose  companionship  and  sympathy  he  felt  himself  en- 
titled to,  he,  too,  came  and  perched  beside  his  friend, 
rammed  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  cheered  himself 
for  a  few  minutes  by  rattling  their  highly  miscellaneous 
contents.  Then  he  leaned  against  John  Shore's  arm, 
which  was  then  slipped  gently  around  him.  "  I've  been 
a-thinkin'  it  all  over,"  said  the  old  man,  without  pre- 
amble or  explanation, — thinking  aloud,  as  he  often  did 
with  Willy.  "  I  feel  like  it  was  waitin'  fur  me  some- 
whurs.   Don't  you  reckon  that  time  '11  come  back  to  me 


192  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

sometime  'r  other,  somcwhur,  Willy?  She  was  always 
waitin'  fur  me  here.  She  couldn't  never  rest,  no  way 
you  fixed  it,  'less  I  was  'round,  onless  she  knowed  what 
kep'  me.  I  reckon  she's  waitin'  fur  me  there."  They 
were  still  sitting  there  when  they  heard  a  voice  hailing 
them.  "  Pa-ap  r  Pa-ap !  Willy !"  called  Matilda.  "Ain't 
you  brung  that  wood  in  yet  ?      Well,  of  all  the  lazy, 

triflin',  good-for-nothin' "     He  waited  to  hear  no 

more,  but  rose  with  a  start  and  came  back  to  the 
present,  and  hastened  to  avert  the  wrath  that  he 
dreaded  doubly, — that  is,  for  himself  and  for  Willy. 
To  keep  Willy  "  out  of  trouble,"  to  make  Willy  happy, 
to  see  that  Willy  lacked  for  nothing,  was  his  constant 
care,  and  his  efforts  to  accomplish  these  objects  in- 
creased with  his  increasing  love  for  the  child  who 
had  now  become  the  one  hope,  joy,  and  comfort  of  his 
daily  life.  So  now,  although  Willy  drew  back  at  the 
door,  saying,  "  I  don't  want  to  go  in  there.  Matilda's  in 
there,  Pa-ap.  Lemmy  go,"  he  only  held  his  hand  the 
more  firmly.  "  Ssh  !  Willy  boy,  you  must.  We  ain't 
been  in  there  to-day,  and  supper's  'most  ready.  Come 
'long  with  your  Pa-ap,"  he  said,  and  drew  him  into  the 
room.  Matilda,  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye,  saw  them 
enter,  and  immediately  opened  fire  on  them, — "  pouring 
in  grape  and  canister,"  Pap  called  the  process,  and  some- 
times "  shcllin'  the  woods  to  drive  out  the  enemy,  or  get 
their  range,"  when  he  talked  of  her  in  the  shed-room 
with  bolted  doors  and  was  in  a  cheerful  mood.  She 
soon  saw  by  his  fiice  that  she  had  got  his  range,  and, 
being  in  one  of  her  most  energetic  and  aggressive  moods, 
she  continued  for  about  an  hour  to  move  about  the  room 
attending  to  various  domestic  matters  and  making  of- 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  193 

fensive  remarks.  Pap  ought  to  have  been,  and  was, 
tolerably  well  used  to  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  physical 
fatigue  and  inward  sadness  were  alike  clamoring  for 
peace  and  rest,  and  his  heart  sickened  within  him  as  he 
listened  to  that  harsh  voice,  and  contrasted  it  mentally 
with  one  as  soft  as  a  wood-pigeon's.  "  This  here  is  what 
my  home  has  come  to,"  he  thought,  bitterly.  "  The 
only  house  on  earth  that  I  love,  or  that  I've  got  to 
shelter  me,  I've  got  to  live  here  and  to  die  here.  And 
her  gone.     And  her  in  her  place." 

Stung  into  action  of  some  sort,  he  got  up  and  sat  in 
the  window-seat,  looking  out  into  the  darkness  within 
and  without,  and  then  he  slipped  as  unobtrusively  as 
possible  into  his  own  chair  and  lit  his  pipe,  resolving  to 
be  patient  and  endure  what  was  not  to  be  cured.  His 
silence  made  Matilda  angrier  than  ever,  and  she  ex- 
pressed this  most  characteristically.  The  room  was  in 
admirable  order,  but,  seizing  a  broom,  she  began  sweep- 
ing violently  in  his  immediate  neighborhood,  making 
wild  dashes  all  around  his  chair  and  under  it,  and  spite- 
ful assaults  upon  his  feet  and  legs,  as  if  about  to  send 
him  bodily  into  the  cavernous  and  flaming  depths  of 
the  old-fashioned  chimney.  Without  a  word  he  moved 
back  a  little,  a  flush  on  his  face.  Stooping  down,  she 
seized  his  felt  hat,  which  he  had  dropped  on  the  floor, 
and  putting  it  on  his  head  gave  it  a  slap  that  jammed 
it  down  over  his  eyes,  saying,  "  Why  don't  you  hang  it 
up  ?  Who's  goin'  to  give  you  another  when  that's  gone, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?"  Seeing  him  thus,  and  thinking  it  a 
funny  sight,  Willy  was  imprudent  enough  to  laugh,  and 
instantly  got  a  rousing  box  on  the  ears  that  made  him 
roar  instead.  "  Tildy  !  Tildy !  Stop  !"  shouted  Pap, 
I        n  17 


194  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

struggling  to  his  feet.  "Let  him  be!  Quit  that!"  He 
had  often  been  obliged  to  see  Willy  punished  and  hold 
his  peace,  but  somehow  he  quite  lost  his  self-control 
now.  Infuriated  by  his  interference,  Matilda  caught 
hold  of  the  child  with  one  hand  and  of  the  poker  with 
the  other.  With  one  plunge  forward  of  himself  and 
his  crutch,  Pap  rushed  to  the  rescue. 

A  struggle  between  them  seemed  inevitable,  but  for- 
tunately Alfred  walked  in  upon  them  that  very  moment. 
The  gravity  of  the  situation  had  a  curious  effect  upon 
him.  His  manner  was  bold  and  his  tone  positively 
burly  as  he  seized  his  wife  and  put  himself  between 
them.  "Why,  what's  all  this?  What's  this?"  he  de- 
manded. "  Tildy !  Pa-ap !"  He  was  just  in  time.  Ma- 
tilda attempted  a  frenzied  explanation.  Pap  sank  back 
in  his  chair.  "  Go  along — go  right  along  to  the  shed," 
suggested  Alfred,  in  a  low  voice  to  his  father.  "  Take 
Willy."  Whimpering  and  scared,  Willy  was  led  away, 
and  when  the  door  of  their  room  was  closed  and  they 
were  secured  from  all  intrusion  Pap  threw  himself 
upon  the  bed  with  his  face  downwards  and  lay  there 
for  an  hour  without  moving  or  saying  a  word.  He 
then  got  up,  and  calling  Willy  to  him,  undressed  him 
and  put  him  to  bed.  He  was  always  woman-tender 
and  patient  with  the  child,  and  having  performed  these 
little  offices  for  him  quickly  and  quietly,  he  caressed 
and  soothed  and  reassured  him.  "  Go  right  to  sleep, 
Willy  boy,  that's  what  you've  got  to  do,"  he  said. 
"And  love  your  Pa-ap, — love  him  always."  But  Willy 
could  not  get  to  sleep  immediately  after  such  an  ex- 
citing evening,  and  Pap  had  to  sit  by  him  and  hold  his 
hand  until  he  did.      Meanwhile  they  had  a  little  talk. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  195 

"Don't  you  go  'way,  now,  Pa-ap.  "Will  you?  Say?" 
said  the  child,  afraid  of  Matilda,  but  not  saying  so. 
"  Promise  me  you'll  stay  right  here." 

"  No,  honey.  Pa-ap  '11  set  here  by  you  and  take  care 
of  you.  Don't  you  be  fearsome.  Matilda  won't  come 
here.  She  got  her  collar  off  this  evenin'  and  sorter 
turned  herself  loose,  that's  all.  She's  been  rough-like 
fur  a  week  'n  more.  She  shan't  hurt  you,  young  one. 
Go  to  sleep  now." 

"  Stone  Newman  he  says  she's  a  screamer.  "What's  a 
screamer  ?" 

"  "Well,  a  screamer's  a  bad-tempered  person  that  holds 
spite.  And  that's  true.  I've  knowed  heaps  and  cords 
uv  women, — all  sorts,  pretty  much,  first  and  last, — but 
there  wuz  never  nary  one  that  could  hold  spite  like 
her.  Why,  Pve  knowed  her  to  git  wrong  side  out  'n  go 
right  along  with  it  cornstant  fur  two  weeks  runnin'. 
And  livin'  in  the  house  with  that  kind  uv  woman  is 
bad,  Willy.  'Tain't  the  peckin'.  You  gits  used  to  that, 
though  it's  mightily  like  havin*  a  hail-storm  all  the 
year  'round.  Nor  it  ain't  the  temper,  which  you  ain't 
afeared  'ill  hurt  you,  in  a  manner  of  speakin',  for  ef  it 
come  to  blows  a  body  could  soon  settle  her.  But" 
(earnestly)  "  don't  you  never,  when  you're  a  man,  tech 
a  woman  fur  to  hurt  her ;  not  so  much  as  her  little  finger. 
D'ye  hear?  Hit's  a  low-lived,  mean  skunk  that'll 
strike  a  woman,  and  do  you  remember  it.  Speak  'em 
fair,  and  treat  'em  kind,  and  ef  you  kain't  git  along  with 
'em  that  er  way,  you  kain't  no  way  at  all.  "Women's 
like  fowls,  Willy.  They  kain't  be  driv.  Ef  you  tries  it 
they  flies  up  in  your  face  and  makes  fur  your  eyes,  or 
goes  jes'  the  way  you  don't  want  'em  to.     No,  as  I  was 


196  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

a-sayin'  'bout  Tildy,  it  aint  the  peckin',  nor  the  scoldin', 
nor  the  temper.  Hit's  the  bindingness  uv  it.  Go  which- 
ever way  you  will, — it  don't  make  no  difference, — you 
knock  agin  a  stone  wall.  En  it  shets  you  into  yourself 
WU88  'n  a  coffin,  it  does." 

"  Alice  warn't  like  her,  wuz  she  ?"  said  Willy,  to  whom 
the  gentle  spirit  was  a  "  familiar." 

'•iVb,  indeed,  and  double  deed.  She  warn't  a  com- 
menter, — my  Ally  warn't, — nor  a  gadder,  nor  a  screamer, 
nor  a  scolder,  nor  a  meddler,  nor  a  gammon er.  She 
warn'  conversive,  though  her  accostment  was  better  'n 
most.  She  was  jes'  the  sweetest  and  best  woman  that 
ever  stepped  ;  and  when  a  body  come  in  downheartened 
and  plum  beat  out,  she  was  the  comfortinest  one  the 
Lord  ever  made.  She  was  the  only  one  that  ever 
rightly  knowed  me,  Willy." 

"  You  know  the  cellar,  Pa-ap.  Under  Tildj-'s  room's 
down  there,  ain't  it?  She'd  better  look  out!  Stone 
Newman  he  sez  the  bad  man  jes'  comes  right  up 
through  the  ground  and  ketches  bad  folks  by  the  legs 

and   jerks    'em   right    down    quick    to "       Here    a 

knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  Willy  convulsively 
seized  Pap's  hand.  "  Don't  go  !  Don't  let  her  in  !"  ho 
cried. 

"  Oh,  'tain't  her.  She'd  never  knock  like  that,"  said 
Pap.  And,  rising,  he  went  to  the  door,  and  found  Alfred 
standing  there  with  a  tin  plate  in  his  hand,  on  which 
were  such  odds  and  ends  of  food  as  he  had  been  able 
to  collect  hastily  while  Matilda  was  out  of  the  room. 

"Have  a  bite  uv  vittlcs,  Pa-ap,"  he  urged,  deprecat- 
ingly.  "You  ain't  had  no  supper.  I'm  mighty  sorry 
things  has  been  so  onpleasantj    but  don't  you   mind 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  197 

Tildy.  Women  will  be  women, — specially  Tildy."  With 
this  paraphrase  of  his  favorite  maxim  he  thrust  the 
plate  into  his  father's  hands,  all  his  honest  face  full  of 
concern. 

"Thanky  kindly,  my  son.  I  don't  want  nothin' 
myself  I  couldn't  eat  nothin';  but  I'll  give  it  to  the 
child.  Thanky,"  Pap  replied,  and  the  door  was  shut 
and  bolted  again. 

**•  Pa-ap,"  said  Willy,  when  he  had  finished  the  supper 
thus  unexpectedly  provided,  and  had  laid  himself  down 
in  bed  again,  and  been  very  quiet  for  full  five  minutes, 
— "  Pa-ap,  had  the  Good  Man  and  the  Bad  Man  quafled 
when  Alfred  married  Tildy  ?"  It  was  a  great  proof 
of  the  perfect  confidence  that  existed  between  them 
that  all  the  child's  most  timid,  mouselike  fancies  and 
thoughts  came  out  and  played  fearlessly  about  this 
hearth  in  the  warm  love-light  that  Pap  diffused  about 
him.  But  when  the  old  man  burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh 
over  this  speech  of  "  Willy  boy's"  he  felt  hurt,  and 
shrank  blushing  into  himself,  and  soon  the  conversation 
was  rounded  with  a  full  stoj),  for  Willy  was  asleep. 

Matilda's  capacity  for  "  holding  spite"  was  fully  shown 
for  some  time  after  this.  Cinderella's  sisters  were 
gentle  and  amiable  women  compared  to  her,  and  weakly 
indulgent ;  and  Pap  got  more  and  more  depressed  as 
day  after  day  went  by  without  any  softening  or  bright- 
ening in  that  quarter.  She  brought  a  couple  of  empty 
meal-bags  in  on  the  following  Saturday,  and,  throwing 
them  down  near  Pap  with  such  force  that  he  was  im- 
mediately almost  covered  with  the  dust,  said,  acridly, 
"  Now  you  two  be  off  this  minnit  to  the  mill  and  git 
both  of  them  filled.    Yer  ain't  o-oin'  to  laze  around  here 

17* 


198  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

a  passel  of  triflin'  no-'counts,  not  worth  shucks,  while 
I'm  workin'  my  fingers  to  the  bone." 

"  We'll  go,  Matildy.  We'll  go,  in  course,"  said  Pap, 
rising  as  he  spoke,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  mild  re- 
monstrance. "  But  you  ain't  got  no  call  to  git  so  riffled 
up.     Go  slow  I     Go  slow !" 

"  Oh,  I  see  where  goin'  slow's  brung  you  to !"  she  re- 
torted. "I've  seed  enough  of  it.  And  you'd  be  further 
ef  I  had  my  way,  I  can  tell  you,  and " 

Pap  had  heard  enough,  and  he  now  slouched  out-of- 
doors.  He  stood  still  for  a  minute,  and  then  walked 
briskly  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  When  he  got 
to  the  irregular,  old-fashioned  chimney,  whose  every  line 
and  curve  he  knew  by  heart,  he  stopped,  and  thrusting 
his  long  arm  up  he  brought  down  from  its  hiding-place 
a  stone  jug  adorned  with  a  corn-cob  stoj^per.  This  he 
set  down  on  the  ground,  and  taking  the  little  tin-cup 
which  was  tied  to  the  handle  he  half  filled  it,  and, 
throwing  back  his  head,  tossed  off  the  contents  almost 
at  a  gulp.  He  was  wiping  his  mouth  by  passing  his 
sleeve  across  it  from  right  to  left  and  back  again,  and 
debating  whether  he  should  repeat  the  operation  or 
not,  when  he  heard  a  voice  near  him  say,  "  Is  it  good, 
Pa-ap?"  and  turning  suddenly  in  wrath,  saw  Willy 
standing  behind  him, — Will}^,  rosy,  smiling,  sweet-faced 
as  usual,  his  hands  stuffed  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes 
fixed  eagerly  on  the  strange  new  jug  that  he  had  been  so 
surprised  to  see,  juggled,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  chimney. 
"  What's  in  it?     Whur  do  you  keep  it  at?"  he  asked. 

Annoyed  by  the  interruption  and  the  discovery  of 
his  secret.  Pap  spoke  roughly  to  the  child.  "  What  are 
you  doin'  here?     Who  called  you?     Go  'long  in  the 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  199 

house  and  mind  your  own  business !  "Whichever  way  I 
turn,  there  you  is,  right  at  my  heels."  Utterly  aston- 
ished, Willy  fled  before  him,  but  was  instantly  recalled. 
"  Come  back,  sonny.  You  kin  stay.  And,  look  here, 
don't  you  say  nothin'  'bout  this  to  nobody, — not  to 
nobody.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

His  tone  was  still  stern,  and  Willy  was  nonplussed, 
and  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Pap  to  speak  to  him 
like  that!     He  couldn't  get  over  it. 

"  I  wasn't  doin'  nothin',"  he  finally  said.  "I  jes'  asked 
you " 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  know  'bout  that,"  said  Pap,  replacing 
the  jug.  This  done,  he  had  leisure  to  observe  that 
Willy  still  looked  disturbed, — did  not  understand  what 
his  offence  had  been,  evidently, — and  was  uncertain 
about  the  foundations  of  his  world  all  at  once,  tbe  roof 
having  just  tumbled  in  on  his  head  when  he  least  ex- 
pected it.  Pap  stood  still  for  some  moments,  looking 
down  and  taking  out  and  putting  in  again  the  while  a 
couple  of  long  thorns  with  which  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  fastening  his  "galluses"  to  his  trousers.  He  then 
patted  the  child's  head,  which  he  drew  up  against  him, 
saying,  in  his  usual  affectionate  and  pleasant  tone, 
"  Well,  never  mind,  honey ;  never  mind.  Yer  sorter 
plagued  and  pestered  me  a  little.  That  was  all.  I 
ain't  mad.  I  didn't  never  mean  to  hurt  your  feelin's. 
Don't  think  no  more  'bout  it.  Come  along,  now,  and 
we'll  go  fur  that  meal,  we  will." 

"Wuz  it  good?"  asked  Willy  again,  harking  back 
with  childish  persistence  to  the  unanswered  question, 
now  that  he  felt  that  Pap  was  Pap  again  and  had  re- 
pented of  his  harshness. 


200  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDQE. 

"  "Well,  no.  It  ain't  to  say  good  eggzackly,"  confessed 
Pap,  reluctantly  compelled  to  discuss  the  question.  "It 
ain't  what  you'd  call  good.  But  hit's  as  searchin'  as 
a  fine-tooth  comb,  Willy  boy.  But"  (caressing  him, 
and  speaking  very  emphatically,  forgetting  also  that 
the  child  did  not  know  what  he  was  talking  of)  "don't 
you  never  tech  it,  never,  never,  NEVER!  You  asked 
me  jes'  now  ef  it  was  good,  didn't  you,  honey  ?  Good  ? 
Why,  it's  the  wuss  stuff  ever  you  could  put  in  your 
mouth !  Don't  you  never  put  none  in  your  dear  little 
mouth,  honey.  No.  It's  black.  And  it's  bad.  And  it's 
bitter  as  gall.  And  it's  sour.  And  it  ain't  well-tasted, — 
not  a  bit.  And  it  smells  awful, — jes'  awful, — Willy  boy. 
It  'most  knocks  you  down.  And  it  would  be  the  ruina- 
tion of  you,  it  would.  Good?  Why,  it  makes  me  laugh 
jes'  to  hear  you  ask  that." 

"  And  it's  searchin'.  Ain't  it,  Pa-ap  ?  You  said  jes' 
now  it  was  searchin'." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  it's  that.  It — it  goes  through  you — well, 
like  a  knife !" 

Pap  was  leaning  with  his  back  against  the  chimney 
and  was  looking  down  at  Willy,  who  now  looked  up  at 
him  with  his  sweet  clear  eyes.  ''  Well,  what  do  you 
take  it  fur,  then  ?"  he  asked. 

Pap  turned  his  head  awa3^  He  could  not  look  at  the 
child. 

"I'm  'blccged  to  sometimes,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
presently,  and  the  color  rose  with  a  sudden  vivid  flush 
into  his  wrinkled  cheeks.  "  Come  along,  now.  We 
ain't  got  a  minnit,  not  a  minnit,  ef  Matildy's  to  have 
that  meal,  and  she'll  know  why  ef  she  don't  git  it,  you 
kin  bet.     Come  right  along,"  he  added,  after  another 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  201 

pause,  and  hand-in-hand  they  returned  to  the  front  of 
the  house,  where  the  dirty-white  meal-bags  had  been 
dropped  on  the  steps,  which  were  further  ornamented 
by  a  row  of  children  all  waiting  like  so  many  youthful 
Micawbers  for  something  to  turn  up.  There  was  some 
one  else  there,  too, — E.  Mintah, — waiting  to  see  Pap,  and 
they  went  apart  from  the  children  as  soon  as  they  had 
exchanged  greetings. 

"  Well,  R.  Mintah,  my  dear,  you  look  bore  down. 
What've  you  got  on  you  this  mornin'  ?"  he  asked  her, 
when  they  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Hit's  Jonah.  Hit's  all  Jonah.  And  I'm  so  mis'able, 
— so  mis'able!"  said  she,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  sobs. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  Jonah  ?" 

"  He's  took  an  idee, — the  foolishest  idee  ever  was, — 
and  he's  mis'able,  too ;  we  both  are  's  sorrowful  as  kin 
be,  and  no  need  to  be.  Oh  !  what's  folks  born  fur  any- 
ways? I  wish  I  didn't  feel  nothin'.  I  wish  I  didn't 
kyur  fur  nobody.  And  after  all  that's  been  between  us ! 
Oh,  Jonah,  what  does  make  you  so  blind  and  deef? 
Oh,  me  !  Oh  !  me !  Hit's  too  much.  And  all  an  idee," 
lamented  R.  Mintah.     "  Jes'  all  an  idee." 

She  could  not  go  on,  and  Pap  said,  reflectively,  "  Idees 
is  bad  to  handle,  R.  Mintah.  You  kain't  ketch  hold  of 
'em.  You  kain't  git  at  'em  well,  nor  git  no  purchase 
on  'em  to  move  'em.  Sometimes  with  luck  you  kin  git 
one  by  the  tail  and  jerk  it  out,  but  you  mostly  makes 
bad  worse.  They're  mighty  bad  things,  idees,  and 
breeds  more  trouble  than  death  '11  cure.  But  what's 
Jonah  thinkin'  ?" 

"He's  thinkin'  that  I — that  him  and  me — that  Marsh 
Culbert — oh,  hit's  too  much!     He's  got  a  persuasion 


202  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

on  him.  He  thinks  that  me  and  Marsh — oh,  he's 
crazy!"  She  stopped  again  to  sob,  and  Pap,  who  never 
could  bear  to  see  a  woman  cry,  stood  by  and  admin- 
istered such  consolation  as  "  Don't  yer,  now.  Don't 
yer !     Hold  yerself  up.     Don't  you  cry." 

"  I  didn't  never  think,"  said  she,  "  when  the  time  come 
fur  him  to  come  out  of  the  horspital,  and  I  went  down 
to  Winston  and  fetched  him  back,  with  him  laid  out  in 
the  bottom  of  the  cart  with  his  head  in  my  lap,  and 
him  so  good  and  kind,  and  tellin'  me  how  glad  he  was 
to  see  me,  and  me  tellin'  him  how  I'd  done  my  outmost 
to  git  to  him, — I  never  thought  nothin'  could  trouble  me 
no  more  in  this  world,  seein'  Jonah  was  'live  and  well, 
and  I  was  'live  and  well,  and  we'd  both  lived  to  see  sech 
a  home-bringin'  of  mj  dear  darlin'.  And  now  it  'pears 
like  it's  too  much  trouble  to  breathe,  and  there  ain't  no 
use  in  nothin'.  Oh !  why  did  he  go  and  do  like  he's 
done  here  lately  ?" 

"What's  his  notion?"  asked  Pap,  again  trying  to 
get  at  the  root  of  the  matter.  *•  Is  it  a  changement  of 
his  feelin's?  Say,  honey?  Men  'speriences  a  change- 
ment of  feelin's  sometimes,  you  know,  and " 

"  Oh,  don't  you  go  and  say  it's  that !"  she  exclaimed, 
starting  back  as  if  he  had  struck  her.  "  Don't  you, 
now.     You  don't  reckon,  sho'  'nough,  hit's  that?'' 

"Well,  no.  I  ain't  said  so,  E.  Mintah.  Don't  you  go 
picking  up  my  words  before  I  fairly  gets  'em  out.  I 
sez  men  does  'sperience  a  changement  of  feelin's, — least- 
ways, some  men  docs, — so  folks  says.  But  not  man^', 
honey.  Mighty  few.  Hardly  any.  I  ain't  never 
knowed — Hum  !  Well,  I  warn't  the  sort  that  changes. 
Maj'be  'twould  ef  been  better  fur  me  ef  I  had  of  been. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  203 

And  I  don't  believe  Jonah  ain't,  neither,"  replied  Pap, 
saying  exactly  the  thing  he  did  not  mean.  "  But  tell 
me  'bout  it." 

"  He's  got  a  persuasion,  Pa-ap,  that  Marsh  Culbert  and 
me  is — I'll  never  say  the  word.  You  see,  Mother  New- 
man she  kep'  on  writin'  him  while  he  was  in  the  hors- 
pital  'bout  Marsh  hangin'  'round  and  stickin'  like  a 
cockleburr,  and  he  got  the  notion  that  Marsh  was  goin' 
to  set  me.  And  he  warn't,  no  sech  thing.  'Twas 
Mandy  he  was  settin'  all  the  time.  And  then  Jonah 
come  home.  And  Mandy  got  out  and  off  with  him, 
and  took  to  carryin'  on  with  Bill  Mathers  'cause  he 
was  a  preacher's  son,  and  more  genteel,  she  'lowed. 
And  Marsh  hadn't  never  went  to  be  genteel,  and  loved 
her  jes'  the  same,  and  more,  and  come  'round  cornstant, 
hopin',  I  reckon,  she'd  change  back  agin.  And  Jonah 
set  around,  and  watched,  and  suspicioned,  and  now  he 
says  I  love  Marsh,  not  him,  and  has  give  me  his  advise- 
ment to  marry  him,  and  not  him,  and  he  says — he  says 
I've  made  too  free  with  him.  Me !  Me  ! !  Jonah  said 
that!  Them  was  his  words."  The  thought  of  these 
terrible  words,  and  who  had  spoken  them,  brought  the 
loudest  wail  of  all  from  the  unhappy  girl,  and  a  small 
river  of  tears  had  flowed  down  her  round  cheeks  and 
been  wiped  away  with  her  apron  before  her  tumultu- 
ous emotions  were  sufficiently  under  control  for  her  to 
say  more.  "  He  won't  see  nothin'  like  it  is.  He  won't 
hear  nothin'  like  it's  said.  He  don'  believe  nothin'  I 
tell  him.  Oh,  I'm  so  mis'able!  I  don'  know  what's 
got  into  him  that  was  so  defferent." 

"Hum!"  began  Pap,  judicially.  "E.  Mintah,  this 
here's  one  of  the  idees  that  can  be  ketched  and  pulled 


204  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

out.  I  kin  ketch  it,  I  reckon.  But  3'ou  must  pull  it 
out, — you  are  the  only  one  that  kin.  Jonah's  done  gone 
and  got  jealous.  That's  how  it  is.  lie's  got  his  eyes 
crossed  in  love,  and  he  kaint  see  straight,  no  matter 
which  er  way  he  looks.  He's  jealous.  And  he's  got 
obstinated,  and  bent,  and  set,  and  determinated,  and 
ornless  his  eyes  gits  put  right  he  kain't  do  no  defferent, 
and  he  won't.  He's  a — Hum !  Well,  now,  I  tell  you 
what,  you  go  'long  home,  child,  and  leave  him  to  me, 
and  don't  you  werrit  no  more  'bout  it  at  all.  It  '11  all 
come  right.  Them  that  changes  once  can  change 
twict,  and  maybe  that  '11  be  the  way  of  it;  anyways,  it 
'11  all  come  right.  Go  'long  back  of  the  lane.  Your 
eyes  is  all  swol'  up  not  fit  to  be  seed,  my  dear,  and  you 
won't  meet  nobody,  skasely,  ef  you  go  back  a  piece 
and  then  turn  to  your  right.     Goo'-by." 

A  good  deal  consoled,  E.  Mintah  put  on  her  sun- 
bonnet  and  turned  away.  Pap  got  a  glimpse  of  her 
tearful  face  down  the  long  rosy  tunnel  that  the  eye  had 
to  traverse  before  it  was  reached,  hidden  away  under  an 
immense  calico  crown,  as  uneasy  a  head  as  ever  wore  a 
royal  one.  He  was  moving  off,  also,  when  she  came 
back.  "  I  hope  you  ain't  thinkin'  hard  of  Jonah,"  she 
said.  "  He  ain't  never  went  to  act  wrong  by  me.  Hit's 
jes'  a  possessment.  That's  what  it  is.  Hit's  mighty 
distressful,  and  has  made  me  onhappy  and  mis'able  in 
my  mind.  But  I  didn't  go  to  say  nothin'  agin  Jonah. 
Not  a  word.  No,  indeed.  I  know  he's  onhappy,  too, 
jes'  like  I  was  that  day  he  kissed  poor  Belle,  that's 
dead  and  gone  whur  there  ain't  no  trouble.  I  don't 
blame  him.  No.  Hit's  a  possessment.  But  what  does 
that  freckle-faced  fool  boy  keep  on  comin'  'round  fur  ? 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  205 

I  hate  the  sight  of  him.  I  wish  he  was  dead,  l^o,  I 
don't,  neither.  But  Marsh  Culbert,  Pa-ap, — one  of  them 
mean,  stinty  Culberts  !  They're  all  no  'count ;  but  they 
ain't  bad  no  chance ;  and  they  don't  git  no  better  off 
for  all  their  pinchin',  and  them  close  as  onion-skins. 
Hit's  might  curious.  And  none  of  'em  a-patchin'  to  him. 
Sim!  Jonah's  crazy!  Plum'  crazy!  I've  studied  over 
it  when  I've  been  by  myself,  and  I  ain't  done  nothin' 
never  that  I'd  feel  bad  to  think  about,  or  nothin'  to  set 
Jonah  agin  me,  and  I  don't  know  how  it  is  this  tbing 
has  growed  like  a  gode.  Oh,  Pa-ap,  talk  to  him !  Make 
him  see  !  To  think  he'd  think  I'd  care  as  much  as  my 
old  shoe  fur  Marsh  Culbert  of  all,  and  make  free  with 
any  man.  Oh,  hit  jes'  kills  me!  My  head  burns  like 
fire." 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!  I  never  heerd  the  like. 
Don't  you,  now.  You !  Jonah's  a  born— Hum !  He's 
done  jumped  clean  out  of  hisself  this  time." 

"Don't  you  think  hard  of  my  dear  Jonah,  Pa-ap! 
Hit's  jes'  a  possessment,  is  what  I  sez  to  myself  all  the 
time,  and  I  ain't  told  nobody.  But  hit's  the  possesstest 
possessment  that  ever  was.  Look  at  the  defference 
'tween  him, — 'tween  Bill  Mathers  and  my  Jonah  !  But 
long  as  he's  s'picioned  me  I've  jes'  got  to  bear  it.  And 
don't  you  think  bard  of  him.  I'll  never,  fur  what  he's 
done  been  to  me  ever  sence  I  was  knee-high  to  a  duck, 
as  the  sayin'  goes, — so  good,  bringin'  in  my  wood,  and 
— oh,  boo-hoo!  boo!  boo!  hoo!" 

"Jonah's  a  fool,  a  nateral-born  fool!"  exclaimed 
Pap,  unable  longer  to  restrain  his  real  sentiments. 
Such  a  look  of  dignified,  unutterable  disj)leasure  spread 
over  E.  Mintah's  face,  such  horror  came  into  it  when 

18 


206  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

she  heard  that  offensive  combination  of  letters  four 
applied  to  her  peerless,  if  misguided,  Jonah,  that  Pap 
immediately  added,  hurriedly,  "  Askin'  your  pardon,  K. 
Mintah,  and  meanin'  he's  foolish  'long  of  bein'  in  love." 

"Hit's  my  fault.  I  ain't  oughter  to  said  what  I've 
said  'bout  my  darlin'  Jonah,"  she  replied,  remorsefully. 

"No  offence,  my  dear;  no  offence,"  said  he.  But 
even  so,  confidence  was  not  immediately  restored  be- 
tween them.  When  Pap,  however,  had  fully  recognized 
his  mistake,  and  praised  Jonah  as  warmly  as  he  had 
cried  out  upon  him,  matters  improved.  "Leave  it  be," 
said  he,  finally.  "  I'll  fix  it  up  all  right  and  tight  fur 
you,  I  reckon.     Hit's  chancey,  but  we'll  resk  it." 

Again  they  parted,  and  again  E.  Mintah  ran  back  to 
him.  "I  can't  be  easy  tell  you  promise  me  you  won't 
think  hard  of  Jonah,"  she  said,  with  a  sweet,  appealing 
look  at  him.  "  Hit's  on  my  mind  that  I've  spoke  agin 
him  and  set  you  agin  him,  and  it's  not  his  deservings, 
and  it's  a  shame  to  me  that  knows  what  he  is,  and  was 
chose  to  be  his  wife  oust.  I'd  better  have  bit  my  tongue 
off." 

"I  don't,  and  I  won't,  I  vows  and  declares  and 
swears,"  said  Pap,  with  all  the  seriousness  the  occasion 
demanded,  and  E.  Mintah,  content  with  this,  gave  him 
a  bright  glance  and  hurried  home. 

When  left  alone.  Pap  stood  still  a  moment.  He  thru^^t 
his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  after  buttoning  up  his 
coat.  He  walked  a  few  steps  slowly,  paused,  retraced 
his  steps,  paused  again,  then  suddenly  looked  sharply 
around  and  about  him,  and  dashed  off  to  the  spot  where 
his  evil  treasure  was  concealed,  and,  with  the  greatest 
haste,  poured  out  and  drank  off  another  cupful  from 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  207 

the  stone  jug,  replaced  it,  and  sauntered  back  to  the 
front  porch.  Matilda,  who  waged  war  against  the 
whole  tribe  of  little  Mountainites,  was  just  driving  the 
children  away  when  he  got  there,  and  they  were  look- 
ing and  lingering  in  the  hope  that  he  would  appear. 

"  Come  'long  to  the  mill  with  me,  children.  Fall  in," 
said  he,  picking  up  the  meal-bags.  And  nothing  loath 
about  a  dozen  representatives  of  the  Brown,  Logan, 
and  Simmons  families  fell  in  behind  him,  and  they  were 
soon  trooping  down  the  lane  together, — the  girls  lank, 
petticoatless,  carefully  bonneted,  obliged  to  run  in  order 
to  keep  up  with  the  party ;  the  boys  with  their  trousers 
rolled  high  above  their  naked  knees  (in  order  to  be 
ready  for  such  agreeable  incidents  as  brooks  and  liquid 
mud),  and  all  of  them  talking,  questioning,  laughing, 
without  the  least  constraint,  and  only  a  chastened, 
repressed  consciousness  that  there  were  Matildas  or 
parents  in  the  world  and  a  hereafter.  They  all  looked 
at  and  appealed  to  "  Pa-ap"  (as  they  called  John  Shore 
with  a  long  drawl  as  like  the  bleat  of  a  sheep  as  it  was 
possible  for  human  lungs  to  emit)  every  other  moment. 
All  the  children  for  miles  around  knew  him.  They 
were  all  fond  of  him.  They  all  owed  him  far  more 
than  they  ever  knew,  much  less  paid.  But  it  was 
curious  how  the  smallest  and  least  shrewd  youngster 
among  them  knew  before  he  was  six  years  old  that  this 
paragon  of  a  friend,  benefactor,  protector,  champion, — 
who  was  all  things  to  all  children, — was  for  some  mys- 
terious reason  not  held  in  the  high  consideration  that 
ought  to  have  been  reserved  for  a  being  so  gifted,  fasci- 
nating, lovable.  Why  should  Matilda,  who  was  hateful 
and  hated  them,  be  spoken  of  with  respect?  and  Mr. 


208  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Carver,  who  preserved  towards  them  an  attitude  of 
armed  neutrality,  and  was  so  cross,  so  dull,  so  ugly, 
almost  with  reverence,  w^hile  "  Pa-ap,"  the  delightful, 
accomjilished  friend,  who  could  do  anything  that  he 
was  asked  to  do,  and  knew  everything  one  could  want 
to  know,  and  never  failed  to  give  help,  comfort,  pleas- 
ure, to  all  who  approached  him,  was  invariably  talked 
of  in  a  way  that  showed  deep,  dark  disapproval?  It 
was  most  enigmatical  and  disagreeable  to  know  that 
such  an  estimate  was  set  upon  a  creature  of  such  special 
and  valuable  endowments,  and  to  be  actually  reproached 
with  being  "  in  cahoot"  with  him,  their  kindest,  best 
friend.  They  could  not,  and  would  not,  give  him  up, 
though,  and  so  it  came  about  that  everybody  agreed  that 
'•  Johnny  Shore  was  jes'  the  ruination  of  them  chil- 
dren,"— a  few  women  excepted, — notably  Mrs.  Logan, 
who  had  one  of  those  families  in  which  there  were 
always  three  children  who  were  too  young  to  wipe 
their  own  noses  or  shut  the  door  or  get  out  of  the  wa}^, 
and  who,  noticing  his  tender  treatment  of  these  help- 
less twigs  among  her  olive-branches,  always  contended 
that  he  was  not  "  near  as  black  as  he  was  painted  by 
other  pots  and  kittles,  and  a  good  friend  to  the  children, 
she  would  say."  A  good  friend  he  was  to  them,  and 
they  found  no  fault  in  him,  perhaps  because  he  found 
so  little  with  them.  A  good  guide,  too,  for  could 
he  not  go  to  the  birds'-nests,  and  persimmons,  and  nuts 
in  the  woods  as  straight  as  a  crow  could  fiy  ?  And  he 
was  their  philosopher, — a  philosopher  whose  wit  and 
wisdom  left  many  a  mark  as  it  played  around  them  and 
over  their  heads,  say  while  digging  bait  preparatory  to 
setting  a  row  of  sun-bonnets  and  baggy-backed,  bullet- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  209 

headed  youngsters  to  fish  with  the  willow-rod  and  pin- 
hook  substitutes  for  tackle,  which  he  was  always  being 
importuned  to  make  for  "  Bill's  brother,"  or  "  ]S"aiicy'8 
cousin,"  or  "  Betty's  sister,"  and  that  pleased  them  so 
much,  nor  deceived  the  smallest,  most  unworldly  blue- 
bottle fly  or  trout  when  presented  to  their  notice.  And 
he  was  their  historian,  finally,  his  method  being  uncon- 
sciously that  of  Herodotus  as  he  related  to  an  open- 
mouthed,  eager-eyed  audience  :  "  The  general's  orderly 
come  to  me  and  shook  me  as  I  was  layin'  asleep  in  a 
fence-corner,  and  he  sez  to  me,  sez  he, '  John,  git  up,  for 
we've  got  to  skedaddle  like  lightnin'.  The  Yanks  is 
piled  up  as  high  as  the  Eidge  over  yonder,  and  they'll 
be  down  on  us  like  a  flail  in  another  minute/  "  etc., 
etc. 


yii. 


"Every  one  is  as  God  made  him,  and  oftentimes  a  great  deal 
worse. ' ' — Cervantes. 

Pap  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  children  in  the  course  of 
the  next  two  weeks,  for  Matilda's  spite  like  the  weather 
held,  and  to  escape  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  would 
have  done  almost  anything.  The  only  thing  that  he 
could  do  was  to  go  off  on  expeditions  that  consumed 
the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  so  get  out  of  her  way. 
This  he  did  as  often  as  he  dared,  and  start  when  he 
would,  before  he  could  settle  his  torn  old  sugar-loaf 
felt  on  his  head  and  seize  his  crutch,  his  purpose  had 
o  18* 


210  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

not  only  gone  abroad,  but  his  followers  (the  "  Trundle- 
bed  Tigers,"  as  he  facetiously  called  them  when  he 
drilled  them)  had  mysteriously  sprung  up  about  the 
door  and  waited  there  to  join  him.  Sometimes  he 
would  go  over  to  Mrs.  Logan's,  put  the  trio  on  his  long 
lap,  declare  "There's  too  many  people  in  this  world, 
shore.  I'll  have  to  drown  some  of  you,  certain,"  en- 
circle as  many  more,  perhaps,  with  his  long  arms,  and 
blow  soap-bubbles  or  play  cat's-cradle  for  an  hour,  and 
occasionally  accept  her  invitation  to  "  stop  and  take 
a  bite,"  with  secret  thankfulness  at  escaping  "  a  meal 
of  vittles"  at  home  with  its  inevitable  accompaniment 
of  "  Tildy's  talk."  And  at  night  he  would  bolt  him- 
self into  the  shed-room  with  "Willy  and  try  to  interest 
himself  and  Burygyard  the  querulous  in  the  higher 
education  which  that  very  conservative  southern  bird 
despised,  and  received  only  under  protest, — a  scornful 
sparkle  in  his  eye,  his  manner  irrelevantly,  flippantly 
vivacious,  his  interpolations  and  interruptions  grossly 
rude,  and  his  tail  cocked  contemptuously  in  a  dozen 
different  waj'S.  Pap  could  not  but  be  amused  by  his 
pupil's  conduct,  especially  by  his  way  of  suddenly  con- 
verting himself  into  a  ball,  rolling  into  the  furthest 
corner  of  his  cage  (as  an  intimation  that  he  had  retired 
from  public  life),  closing  his  eyes,  and  affecting  to  bo 
deaf,  when  bored  by  hearing  his  lesson  repeated  ad  nau- 
seam on  the  violin.  And  then,  not  caring  to  play,  he 
would  put  awa}'  the  instrument,  and,  having  the  even- 
ing before  him,  would  put  Willy  through  the  manual  of 
arms.  This  was  always  done  in  the  same  fashion. 
"Fall  in  Company  C,"  Pap  would  say,  and  Wilh'  would 
eagerly  seize  the  footless  andirons  and  place  them  in  the 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  211 

middle  of  the  room,  side  by  side.  "  Now  git  Jim  Wil- 
kins."  (Willy  had  heard  all  about  Pap's  comrade,  and 
they  had  gradually  got  into  a  habit  of  calling  the  leg 
bought  with  his  last  gift  by  his  name.)  "He  never 
would  turn  out  without  the  long  roll  was  beat,  skasel}', 
at  night."  Willy  would  add  Jim  Wilkins  and  himself 
to  the  row.  It  was  Pap's  habit  to  lay  aside  his  wooden 
leg  in  the  evening,  and  prop  his  own  stump  up  on  a 
chair  in  front  of  him,  and  from  this  position  he  would 
give  the  most  extensive  orders  for  the  execution  of 
various  military  manoeuvres.  "  Dress  your  line,"  would 
be  the  next  command,  and  Willy  would  try  to  get  him- 
self and  his  comrades  as  nearly  as  possible  on  a  line, — 
a  task  not  without  difficulties,  as  he  complained  to  Pap, 
seeing  that,  unlike  the  Household  regiments,  the  men 
of  Company  C  were  not  strikingh^  alike  in  size  and 
build.  "  Shur  !  that  don't  matter,  Willy  boy.  There's 
fat  and  lean,  and  big  and  puny,  and  all  sorts  in  the 
army.  You  kain't  pick  and  choose.  And  yours  is  all 
cornscripts,  'ceptin'  Jim.  He  warn't  never  the  sort  to 
wait  to  be  cornscripted  into  a  fight.  No,  indeed  !  They 
don't  hardly  know  the  right  hand  from  the  left  foot." 

"  They  ain't  got  no  feet.  They  ain't  got  no  hands, 
neither,"  objected  Willy. 

"  Well,  that  ain't  no  matter,  neither,"  said  Pap.  "  Ef 
they'd  of  had  'em,  they'd  of  been  shot  off,  don't  yer  see, 
so  what's  the  use  ?  Go  on,  why  don't  yer  ?  Harm 
harm!  Hound  harm  !  Present  harm!  Groun' harm  ! 
Corporal  Brass  has  done  got  turned  'round  the  wrong 
way,  honey.  He  ain't  facin'  the  enemy.  Hain  harm ! 
Eight  about!  Tech  Jim  Wilkins  up  a  little.  Eight 
face!     Forward!     March!" 


212  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

When  it  came  to  marching,  of  course  Willy  distanced 
all  the  other  members  of  "  Company  C,  First  Virginia 
Foot,"  and  being  complimented  by  Pap  upon  his  sol- 
dierly bearing,  was  as  much  gratified  as  though  his  com- 
petitors had  not  been  a  little  handicapped  in  this  race 
for  distinction.  Over  and  over  again  would  this  per- 
formance be  rej^cated,  with  such  variations  in  Pap's 
inarticulate  but  resonant  commands  as  suggested  them- 
selves to  the  old  soldier.  Sometimes  Corporal  Brass 
would  be  thrown  out  on  the  skirmish-line  and  pick  off 
staff  officers  and  even  generals  ("Bang!"  "Bang!")  by 
the  score.  Sometimes  Sergeant  Iron  would  be  entrenched 
in  a  rifle-pit  (disguised  as  an  empty  water  bucket),  and 
dodged  shells,  whenever  he  put  his  head  out,  in  the 
most  skilful  way.  Sometimes  Jim  Wilkins,  with  "  eyes 
right,"  and  "  little  fingers  to  the  seam  of  the  pants,  and 
palms  of  the  hands  turned  outward,"  would  drill  for 
half  an  hour  at  a  time  with  a  wisp  of  straw  wrapped 
about  his  foot,  as  one  of  the  awkward  squad,  while  Willy, 
in  raptures,  would  shriek  out  his  delight,  and  when  the 
mistakes  were  very  glaring  and  ridiculous,  would  turn 
a  somersault  or  two,  as  he  was  rather  fond  of  doing. 
And  generally  drill  closed  with  Willy's  galloping  madly 
around  the  room  in  a  double-quick  several  times  and 
bounding  finally  into  Pap's  lap,  where,  you  may  bo 
sure,  he  was  embraced  and  made  welcome  as  the  only 
survivor  of  Companj-  C,  all  the  other  members  of  that 
unfortunate  organization  being  invariably  knocked 
down — I  mean  shot  dead — by  one  awful  blast  from 
Willy's  imaginary  cannon  at  the  foot  of  the  old  stove 
(a  deadly  tomato-can,  more  fatal  far  than  if  it  had  been 
full  of  nitro-glycerine),  or  perhaps   cut  down   in  the 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  213 

prime  of  life  by  one  sweep  from  his  wooden  sword. 
They  lent  themselves  to  this  act  more  readily  than  any 
other,  and  were  much  more  satisfactory  in  it,  Willy 
thought,  thanks  to  certain  constitutional  peculiarities 
and  fatalities.  They  scored  in  it  every  evening  their 
only  success,  and  Willy,  who  was  Federal  or  Confed- 
erate, as  the  exigencies  of  the  moment  might  demand, 
was  never  tired  of  falling  upon  them  and  battering 
them  with  all  his  might. 

"  What !  puttin'  a  wounded  man  to  the  sword  ?"  said 
Pap  one  evening,  tired  of  the  din.  "  Shame  on  you ! 
Look  at  old  Blue  Light  yonder.  He's  piniin'  straight 
at  yer  fur  a  coward." 

Willy  stopped,  looked,  was  impressed,  and  after  this 
the  quality  of  Willy's  mercy  was  very  much  strained, 
for  he  grew  so  intensely  sentimental  in  his  feelings 
about  wounded  soldiers  that  for  a  week  he  was  a 
perfect  nuisance  with  his  lint  and  bandages  and  potions 
for  "x)o'  Corporal  Brass"  or  "po'  old  Sergeant  L'on," 
and  was  all  pity  and  generosity,  prattling  very  prettily 
of  the  new  sentiments  that  had  been  temporarily 
aroused  in  his  youthful  bosom.  Only  temporarily,  for 
this  Nightingale  view  of  war,  as  a  great  opportunity 
for  the  exercise  of  Christian  charity,  soon  palled  upon 
him.  He  said  he  was  "tired  of  nussin',"  and  added 
that  "it  warn't  no  fun,"  and  fell  upon  the  corporal 
and  the  sergeant  with  more  fury  than  ever  when  the 
reaction  from  all  this  fine  feeling  suddenly  set  in. 
Corporal  Brass,  so  called  because  of  a  dented  metal 
knob  that  still  remained  to  him  from  that  distant 
period  in  which  he  had  known  better  days,  lost  his 
head  in    this  onslaught,  and  was   now  scarcely  to  be 


214  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

distinguished  from  his  fellow-soldier,  the  sergeant; 
but  like  true  veterans  both  of  them  might  be  slain  but 
could  not  be  conquered,  and  fought  their  battles  o'er  and 
o'er  every  evening  regularly. 

Pap  would  look  on,  all  smiling  placidity,  while  they 
were  being  demolished,  but  when  Willy  would  have 
assaulted  "Jim  Wilkins"  in  the  same  way  he  would 
interfere.  "You  let  him  alone,"  he  would  say.  "I 
ain't  goin'  to  have  you  kickin'  Jim  'round  the  place, 
nor  nobody  else.  He's  defferent.  I  won't  suffer  it;" 
then  with  an  appeal  to  Willy's  ever  lively  imagina- 
tion, "  You'd  better  keep  out  of  his  way,  or  he'll 
git  you  down  and  stawmp  you."  Sometimes — gen- 
erally, indeed — Willy  was  the  deus  ex  machind  of  these 
engagements;  sometimes  Pap  got  down  on  the  floor 
as  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  forces,  and  conducted 
a  particularly  brilliant  campaign  with  his  crutch,  for- 
getting, for  the  moment,  his  own  sad  fortunes  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  mimic  war  he  had  in  charge,  and  sur- 
prising himself  into  many  a  laugh.  But  the  next 
moment,  perhaps,  he  would  sigh  and  get  up  and  hobble 
back  to  his  chair,  telling  Willy  to  "put  away  them 
things  and  ondress."  And  he  was  sad  enough,  Heaven 
knows, — bitterly  miserable, — during  the  long,  wakeful 
nights  that  followed,  and  got  up  in  the  morning  gloomy 
and  dejected  every  day  for  a  week, — an  unusual  mood 
with  him  and  one  that  Willy  could  not  understand. 
Finally,  one  day  he  disappeared,  and  Willy  wondered 
still  more,  and  went  about  asking  impatiently,  "  Whur's 
Pa-ap?  Whur's  Pa-ap  at?"  No  one  kiew;  and  at 
dinner  Matilda  said  sharply  to  her  husband,  "Your 
Pa-ap's  gone  to  town,  ain't  he  ?"  and  Alfred  said,  "  Y-e-s. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  215 

I  sent  him,"  which  was  a  pure  fiction,  as  no  one  knew 
better  than  his  wife. 

"  More  fool  you,  ef  you  done  it,  which  I  ain't  took 
in,"  she  said.     "No  indeed." 

"Pertaters  ain't  nowhur  this  year.  It's  mighty 
curous  'bout  pertaters.  Ef  the  eyes  ain't  cut  jes'  egg- 
zackly  like  they  ought  to  be "  began  Alfred. 

"  Oh,  shet  up,  simpleton  !"  exclaimed  Matilda.  "  It 
ain't  only  pertaters  that's  got  eyes,  I  kin  tell  you.  What 
did  you  send  him  fur  ?     Tell  me  that.     Hainh  ?" 

"  '  Hurts  and  meddlers  goes  hand-in-hand,'  "  quoted 
Alfred,  with  a  timid  roll  of  his  eyes,  and  a  thrust  of  his 
knife  down  his  throat  that  gave  him  the  air  of  attempt- 
ing his  life.  This  silenced  Matilda  for  the  moment; 
but  all  that  afternoon  at  short  intervals  Willy  was 
asking,  "  Whur's  Pa-ap  at  ?  Whur's  he  done  gone 
to?"  and,  getting  evasive  or  contemptuous  replies,  was 
more  sensible  than  ever  that  something  was  wrong. 
He  went  off,  at  last,  to  have  a  play  with  the  IN'ewman 
boys,  and  when  he  came  in  Pap's  crutch  was  the  first 
thing  he  saw,  set  against  the  wall.  He  was  about  to 
burst  into  the  shed-room  and  relieve  his  heart  and  mind 
of  the  day's  experience  and  of  a  great  plan  for  the 
morrow,  when  he  met  Alfred  coming  out  of  it  with  an 
unusual  look  of  resolve  and  reserve  on  his  face.  "  Come 
'long  'way  from  there,  Willy,"  he  said,  and  took  the 
child  by  the  shoulders. 

"Why?  What  fur?  Ain't  Pa-ap  in  there?"  said 
Willy,  pulling  away  from  him  impatiently.  "  Lemmy 
in!" 

"  You  kain't  go  in  there  to-night,  child,"  said  Alfred, 
and  his  firm  tone  struck  Willy  at  once  and  carried  a 


216  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

conviction  that  the  mysterious  something  was  in  the 
air  again  and  that  he  must  yield.  "  You'll  sleep  in  our 
room  to-night,  I  reckon.  Pa-ap  he's  got  a — a  sorter  of 
indisposement.     lie's  got  to  be  quiet.     Come  'way." 

Matilda  at  supper  was  silent,  and  sat  up  very  straight, 
indeed,  with  a  red  face,  and  her  lips  pinched  in  and 
focused  to  a  remarkably  fine  point,  while  Alfred  fol- 
lowed her  every  glance  and  movement,  and  Willy  tried 
to  make  out  what  "  it"  was.  At  bedtime  it  was  Alfred 
who  fumblingly  attended  to  his  buttons  and  strings, 
seeing  which  Matilda  announced,  "  That  brat  ain't  to 
stay  here."  And  Alfred,  after  making  an  excursion  into 
the  shed-room,  came  out  and  said,  "  I  reckon  he'll  do  in 
there,"  and  cautioning  the  child  to  be  ''  mighty  still  and 
not  talk  nor  move"  took  him  in  and  put  him  into  the  cot- 
bed,  where  Pap  was  already  lying.  The  day  had  been  a 
tiring  one,  and  after  a  little  more  wondering  and  a  good 
deal  of  staring  at  the,  for  some  reason,  strange  figure 
beside  him  he  fell  asleep  and  knew  nothing  more  until 
he  heard  Matilda's  shrill  call,  "You  Pa-ap !  You  Willy  ! 
Darthuly  Mely !  Git  up!  Day's  a-breakin'."  Ho 
scrambled  up  and  looked  about  him.  Pap  was  no 
longer  beside  him.  He  dressed  himself  as  best  he  could. 
And  then  came  breakfast,  with  Alfred  looking  troubled, 
and  Matilda  warlike  in  the  extreme  and  very  emphatic 
in  her  way  of  handling  dishes  and  kettles  and  j^ails, 
and  Darthulia  Amelia  Bradd  (a  pale  young  person  had 
in  to  help  with  the  quilts  to  be  put  in),  half  timid,  half 
simpering,  as  if  she  would  like  to  be  amused  if  she 
dared. 

To  Willy's  "  Whur's  Pa-ap,  anyways?"  of  desperate 
inquiry   all   three    looked    unutterable    response,   but 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  217 

Alfred  only  said,  "  He'll  not  be  home  jes'  yet.  You  can 
go  'long  and  play  with  Stone  and  Pete  to-day." 

'•  But  whur's "  he  began  again. 

"  Ssh  !"  said  Alfred,  significantly,  and  kicked  his  bare 
foot  under  the  table,  bidding  him  hold  his  tongue.  All 
that  day  passed,  and  he  was  "  'lowed"  to  stay  all  night 
with  the  boys,  his  friends,  which  was  a  thing  he  had 
vainly  begged  for  many  a  time,  yet  which  now  that  it 
had  come  made  him  seriously  uneasy  somehow.  The 
next  day  it  was  the  same  thing.  Still  no  Pap,  more 
mystery,  and  an  atmosphere  of  repressed  sulphur  and 
brimstone  about  the  cottage.  Willy  could  not  under- 
stand it,  and  wondered  most  of  all  that  night,  when  he 
could  actually  hear  Pap's  voice  as  he  talked  and  laughed 
uproariously  in  the  shed-room,  yet  was  still  forbidden 
to  go  to  him.  It  was  very  late  that  night  before  he 
was  allowed  to  go  in,  and  then  Alfred  put  him  to  bed 
with  the  same  counsels  and  cautions,  and  Pap  was  lying 
there  like  a  log,  still  dressed  and  with  his  boots  on. 
There  was  no  light  except  the  faint  one  from  the  win- 
dow. He  could  hear  Bunny  whisking  briskly  about 
his  cage  in  the  dark.  Burygyard  gave  out  a  few  low, 
melancholy  notes.  The  child  got  nervous  and  excited. 
He  sat  up  in  bed.  He  called  "  Pa-ap !  Pa-ap !  Oh, 
Pa-ap!"  at  first  in  a  whisper,  and  then  louder  as  his 
distress  increased.  Getting  no  answer,  he  beat  roughly 
with  his  little  fists  on  Pap's  breast,  who  still  lay  there 
in  that  unnatural,  awful  quiet  and  silence  that  said  so 
much.  At  last  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  spring- 
ing out  of  bed  he  ran  into  Alfred's  room  and  arms. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  Pa-ap  ?"  he  demanded.  "  Is 
it  a  breast-trouble  ?  Is  he  goin'  to  die,  and  be  put  in  a 
K  19 


218  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE, 

hole  in  the  ground,  whur  he  can't  never  come  back  no 
mo'  ?"  Matilda  was  out  of  the  room,  and  Alfred  was 
very  kind.  "  It's  jes'  a  indisposement,"  he  said.  "  Don't 
you  werrit  'bout  it,  child.  He'll  be  hisself  agin,  all 
right  to-morrow.  Here!  come  along!"  and  taking  his 
hand  he  opened  a  door  and  said,  meaningly,  "  Darthuly 
Meely,  this  here  child's  afeerd.  Let  him  stay  in  here 
with  you,  won't  yer,  to-night?"  It  was  so  arranged, 
and  the  pale  young  person  was  very  kind,  too ;  but 
Willy's  innocent  thoughts  were  still  of  the  "breast- 
trouble," — the  serpent  coiled  in  the  breast  against  which 
he  had  leaned  his  little  head  so  confidently  and  happily, 
hitherto,  with  no  sort  of  misgiving. 

He  saw  Pap — the  Pap  that  he  knew  and  loved — next 
morning,  but  he  was  not  himself  as  Alfred  had  prom- 
ised he  would  be.  There  was  no  laughter  to  be  heard 
from  him.  He  was  gloomier  than  Willy  had  ever  seen 
him.  He  was  wretched  in  body  and  mind,  and  humil- 
itated  into  the  dust.  What  Willy  saw  was  that  he 
looked  white  and  sick,  and  he  felt  surprised  that  he 
should  be  so  irritable.  When  he  would  have  embraced 
him  in  the  fulness  of  his  relief  and  content  at  finding 
what  he  had  lost  and  missed.  Pap  repulsed  him,  and 
would  have  none  of  his  caresses,  saying,  "  Go  'way, 
child.  Go  'way  from  me.  I  ain't  fitten'  for  you  to 
kiss,  nor  keer  for,  nor  nobody  else."  When  breakfast- 
time  came,  he  wouldn't  stir.  Willy  was  called  to  the 
meal  by  Matilda,  and  when  Alfred  would  have  gone  for 
his  father  she  said,  "I'll  not  equalize  myself  with  no 
sech.  Let  him  starve.  lie's  not  a-goin'  to  set  down 
with  me,"  and  it  was  Alfred  who,  after  breakfast,  sent 
Willy  in  with  some  bread  and  coffee.     He  might  have 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  219 

spared  himself  the  trouble,  for  it  was  not  touched. 
Pap  lay  on  his  bed  all  day  and  ate  nothing,  and  said  as 
little  as  possible,  and  puzzled  Willy  more  than  ever. 
He  got  up  when  evening  came,  and  Willy,  when  he 
came  in,  found  him  taking  down  his  pictures  of  Lee 
and  Jackson,  and  the  chromo-advertisement,  and  putting 
them  away  out  of  sight  on  a  shelf  in  the  corner. 

"What  you  doin',  Pa-ap?"  he  asked. 

"You  see  what  I'm  doin'.  I'm  a-takin'  these  here 
down." 

"  Whyfor,  Pa-ap  ?     Hainh  ?"  said  Willy. 

"  I  ain't  fitten  to  have  no  sech  'round.  I  don't  want 
'em  here,"  he  said,  and  went  on  with  the  work  of  re- 
moval. "  I've  done  hung  that  Burygyard  outside,  too. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  have  him  starin'  like  he'd  never  see  a 
person  befo'." 

"  Yer  don't  feel  good,  does  yer,  Pa-ap  ?  Yer  feels  bad 
'bout  somethin',  don't  yer?"  said  Willy. 

"  Well,  ef  I  does,  it's  what  I  oughter.  I  kain't  feel 
as  bad  as  I  am ;  that's  certain,"  he  replied,  with  forlorn 
emphasis. 

"Yer  airCt  bad,  no  sech  thing!  You're  good.  The 
best  sort,  that's  what.  Po'  Pa-ap,  I'm  mighty  sorry 
you've  been  sick,"  said  Willy,  and  left  the  chair  on 
which  he  had  been  hitching  about,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  for  some  moments,  and  would  have  put  an 
arm  caressingly  around  his  old  friend's  neck,  but  he  got 
up  suddenly,  crying  out,  "  Oh,  honey,  don't !  Don't  !" 
and  throwing  himself  back  on  the  bed  gave  smothered 
vent  to  several  sobs,  while  Willy  looked  on  aghast. 

If  Matilda  had  been  hard  and  bitter  and  scornful 
before,  she  was  now  as  terrible  to  Pap  as  the  "  light- 


220  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

ning-looker  Lamachos,"  and  as  "  gorgon-crested"  as  ever 
Medusa  was,  although  her  hair  was  red  and  short  and 
generally  done  up  in  curl-papers  twisted  up  viciously  at 
the  ends  and  further  secured  with  large  brass  pins. 
She  railed,  she  scolded,  she  sneered,  insinuated,  snubbed, 
until  one  would  have  supposed  that  the  veriest  worm 
of  humanity  could  not  but  turn  upon  her.  But  Pap 
sat  through  meal  after  meal,  singularly  submissive  and 
silent,  never  resenting  anything  that  she  might  say, 
and  never  attempting  to  defend  himself,  no  matter  of 
what  he  was  accused.  She  "  wouldn't  have  trouble  took 
for  no  sech,"  she  said  ;  so  he  was  admitted  to  the  table 
again,  after  the  first  day,  and  was  obliged  to  avail  him- 
self of  the  doubtful  privilege.  Alfred's  round  face  got 
a  chronic  pallor  during  these  weeks,  except  when  his 
nervousness  found  a  fresh  and  singular  vent.  When  the 
domestic  barometer  stood  at "  stormy,"  he  would  suddenly 
inflate  his  cheeks,  apparently  to  the  point  of  bursting, 
and  smite  upon  them  with  his  clinched  fists,  and  would 
then  puff  and  snort  and  chuckle  in  an  elaborate  effort 
to  be  gay  and  plaj^ful  and  perfectly  at  his  ease  that 
was  really  pathetic.  He  reefed  every  yard  of  conver- 
sational canvas  that  he  carried,  and  scudded  under  the 
barest  proverbial  poles,  yet  was  invariably  caught  in 
one  of  the  spiral  whirls  in  which  Matilda's  wrath,  fol- 
lowing the  law  of  storms,  circled  about  and  seized  upon 
those  who  were  far  and  those  who  were  near  alike. 
He  tried  feebly  to  befriend  his  father  in  some  such 
fashion  as  "  Bad  might  be  wuss,  Tildy,"  or  "  Fly  high 
and  fall  low  was  wrote  fur  men  and  birds,"  but  with 
the  first  angr}'-  word  of  her  reply  he  succumbed,  out 
would  go  his  cheeks,  his  face  would  get  scarlet,  his  eyes 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  221 

almost  start  from  their  sockets.  A  blow  from  his  fists, 
the  consequent  explosion,  and  then  puff,  snort,  and 
chuckle  would  follow  again  in  ludicrous  and  invariable 
succession.  Pap's  meek  accej)tance  of  the  treatment 
he  received  both  puzzled  and  angered  Willy,  who  did 
not  understand  that  this  miserable  sinner  was  getting 
from  it  the  curious  satisfaction  that  a  fanatical  saint 
might  from  flagellation. 

"  Don't  yer  do  that,  sonny,"  he  said  to  the  child  when 
he  found  him  making  faces  at  Matilda  behind  her  back, 
which  was  one  of  the  secret  satisfactions  of  his  parti- 
sanship, if  a  rather  inefl*ectual  one,  so  far  as  any  benefit 
to  his  friend  was  concerned.  "I  deserves  what  I  gits, 
and  a  big  sight  more.     You  let  her  be." 

It  was  not  until  one  of  the  Landon  men  fell  ill  of 
scarlet  fever,  and  Pap  had  nursed  him  through  it,  that 
he  seemed  to  recover  his  old  cheerfulness  and  equanimity. 
People  on  the  Mountain  had  a  good  many  forms  of  pride, 
and  as  many  distinctions  of  their  own  as  the  great  world 
can  show.  The  Stubbs,  for  instance,  "  had  starved,  but 
hadn't  never  begged."  The  Browns  "had  always  had  a 
horse,  leastways  a  steer."  The  Snoodgrass  family  always 
"  got  their  religion  hard,  and  lost  it  easy."  The  New- 
mans— if  Mother  IS'ewman  was  to  be  believed — "  hadn't 
never  been  ones  to  crawl,  but  walked  right  ofP."  The 
peculiar  glory  and  characteristic  of  the  Landons  was 
that  "they  warn't  people  that  went  to  bed  for  nothin' : 
they  dropped  where  they  stood." 

So  when  Jackson  Landon,  in  accordance  with  the 
family  tradition,  "  dropped"  at  a  neighbor's  into  scarlet 
fever.  Pap  volunteered  to  take  care  of  him,  and  did  so 
most  kindly  and  faithfully  for  three  weeks,  and  came 

19* 


222  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RJDGE. 

home  whistling  the  day  his  patient  went  home,  and 
went  straight  to  a  certain  shelf,  where  he  got  down  his 
pictures,  brushed  the  dust  from  them,  still  whistling,  and 
tacked  them  up  gravely  in  their  old  places. 

"  Pa-ap,"  said  Willy,  who  was  looking  on,  '*  you  done 
put  old  Blue  Light  back  agin  whur  he  belongs  at,  ain't 
yer?" 

"Yes,  honey.  You  see  I've  done  nailed  him  back. 
Hit's  more  'n  some  could  do,  I  tell  you,  to  nail  him  to 
any  one  spot.  He  warn't  never  to  be  found  whur  folks 
looked  fur  him,  no  more  'n  a  flea,  he  warn't.  No  indeed. 
Go  where  they  would  and  when  they  would,  he  was 
always  in  the  other  place,  miles  away.  Yes.  Hit's  good 
to  have  him  'round  agin,  ain't  it,  Willy  boy?" 

"Was  he  a-pintin'  at  you,  Pa-ap,  when  you  took  him 
down?"  said  Will}-.  "  Don't  you  know?  Like  he  was 
at  me  that  time.     You  know." 

"  He  was,  honey,  straight,'^  confessed  Pap.  "  That 
was  it.  He  seed  me.  I  knowed  what  he  thouirht  of 
sech  as  me,  and  I  couldn't  suffer  it.  Turnin'  my  back 
done  no  good.     I  had  to  take  him  plum'  down." 

"  But  he  ain't  pintin'  at  you  now,  is  he,  Pa-ap  ?"  said 
Willy. 

"  Well,  no,  child.  He's  sorter  shut  his  eyes.  You  see, 
I  was  a  good  soldier,  and  he  wouldn't  like  to  be  hard  on 
an  old  soldier  cf  he  could  help  it.  He  was  a  merciful 
man, — good  and  kind  to  the  worst  of  us  always.  Yes, 
a  merciful  man ;  but  we'd  sooner  have  seed  Old  Nick 
than  him  when  we'd  been  stcalin'  and  burnin'  and  sich. 
He  was  turrible  then  as  thunder  and  lightniii',  he  was." 

"  Was  Ally  a-pintin'  at  you,  too,  Pa-ap  ?"  asked  Willy, 
when  the  chromo's  turn  to  be  replaced  came.     "  You 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  223 

didn't  do  no  stealin'  nor  burnin'  like  the  others,  did 
you?" 

"  Well,  I've  took  chickens  and  sich,  and  IVe  slipped 
many  a  rail  off  the  fork,  and — and  there  was  other 
things,  but  that  warn't  nothin'.  I  wish  I  hadn't  never 
done  no  worse.  Chickens  don't  look  to  die  natural 
deaths.  They  ain't  usened  to  it,  and  maybe  they 
wouldn't  like  it.  A  low  lingerment  ain't  to  my  mind, 
neither,  when  it  comes  time  to  break  camp  and  sur- 
render. And  as  for  rails,  when  a  man's  marched  all 
day,  honey,  and  toted  a  heavy  musket,  and  has  had 
precious  little  to  eat,  and  has  got  a  snowbank  to  sleep 
in,  with  maybe  not  a  blanket  to  kiver  him,  he's  hound 
to  git  warm  ef  he's  got  to  set  the  world  on  fire  to  do  it 
and  roast  hisself  in  the  ashes.  No,  Ally,  she  warn't 
a-pintin'  nor  so  much  as  a-lookin'  at  me.  You  see  her 
eyes  is  down  in  the  picture,  and  she  was  that  sort  that 
she  wouldn't  of  looked  at  me  fur  nothin'  ef  she'd  of 
knowed  I  didn't  want  to  be  looked  at.  But  I  knowed 
what  she  was  a-thinkin'  with  her  eyes  throwed  down 
to  keep  me  from  seein',  and — (hammer,  hammer,  ham- 
mer) I  ain't  never  see  no  eyes  as  blue  as  hern.  Your'n 
puts  me  in  mind  of  'em  now  and  agin,  "Willy  boy,  but 
they  ain't  to  be  compared." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  Pap  undertook  a  bit 
of  delicate  and  difficult  negotiation  in  the  interests  of 
R.  Mintah.  Jonah's  imagination,  like  that  of  most 
jealous  lovers,  was  that  of  "  common  sense  turned  up- 
side down."  He  had  indicted  and  arraigned  his  gentle 
little  sweetheart  before  a  private  packed  jury  of  his 
own,  and  got  a  verdict  that  ought  to  have  suited  him 
entirely,   but    that,    as  a  matter   of   fact,   made    him 


224  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

wretched,  and  he  laid  his  case  before  Pap  at  great 
length.  The  reasonable  and  consistent  lover  who  had 
kissed  Belle  Pod  ley  objected  to  young  Culbert's  "  taking 
tbe  hand  witch  was  belonging  to  another," — that  is, 
shaking  hands  with  E.  Mintah.  He  had  a  dozen  other 
grievances  equally  serious  and  well  founded.  She  had 
walked  home  from  church  with  "that  cuss."  Her 
engagement  ring  had  gone, — been  lost  she  said,  given 
away  to  Culbert  he  was  sure.  She  "  warn't  the  same," 
— which  was  remarkable  under  the  circumstances, — and 
80  on,  for  two  good  hours  that  ought  to  have  been 
given  to  the  family  wood-pile.  He  "  warn't  fooled,"  he 
said,  nor  was  he,  except  by  himself.  '^  She's  mine,'"  he 
said,  in  conclusion.  "  And  I've  got  the  privilege  of  her, 
and  she  shan't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  nary  man  livin', 
not  so  much  as  talkin'  with  'em,  nor  settin'  in  the  same 
room  with  'em,  nor  lookin'  at  em,  if  so  be  as  I  don't 
choose  to  have  it  so.  And  I  won't  have  that  Culbert 
'bout.  I'll  chase  him  off  the  Mountain  ef  he  comes 
to  the  house  agin.  And  ef  that  don't  do  I'll  quieten 
him." 

In  short,  this  shock-headed  and  sore-hearted  rustic 
was  as  jealous  as  a  Turk,  and  would  have  liked  to  shut 
his  perfectly  innocent  and  devoted  little  R.  Mintah  up 
behind  the  highest  walls  that  could  have  been  built; 
and  not  alone  to  have  shut  her  in,  but  to  have  shut  out 
every  other  member  of  his  own  too  dangerous  sex, 
and  set  up  the  domestic  system  of  the  Bosphorus  along 
the  banks  of  the  Shenandoah.  It  is  not  necessary  to  go 
into  Pap's  arguments  and  remonstrances.  Only  a  sin- 
cere desire  to  straighten  out  this  tangled  skein  of  sen- 
timent in  which  the  heart  of  a  sweet  girl  was  wrapped 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  225 

and  suffocated  induced  him  to  say  a  word.  He  would 
have  greatly  preferred  to  "  shake  the  young  ijit,"  as  he 
told  Willy,  to  whom  he  said  that  Jonah  and  E.  Mintah 
had  "got  wrong."  "But  the  mind, — the  right  mind  '11 
come,"  he  added,  feeling  that  when  a  woman  cannot  be 
happy  without  a  particular  prize  booby  it  is  the  duty 
of  society  to  satisfy  her  if  it  can. 

The  result  of  his  intercession  was  shown  by  E.  Min- 
tah's  rushing  into  the  shed-room  one  day  with  a  radiant 
face,  her  tears  still  shining  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  pink 
sun-bonnet  dangling  by  its  strings  about  her  neck, — E. 
Mintah  as  tremulously  joyous  and  bright  as  a  sunbeam, 
— saying,  "  Oh,  Pa-ap  !  It's  all  done  come  right !  Jonah's 
forgive  me !  Jonah's  took  me  back !"  Her  fearful 
crimes  and  misdemeanors  had  been  condoned,  and  she, 
the  tender  and  true-hearted  and  injured,  was  overjoyed 
at  being  "  forgiven," — "  took  back."  Pap  took  the  hand 
"  witch Vas  belonging  to  another,"  and  the  tears  were  in 
his  own  eyes  as  he  said,  "  That's  right,  E.  Mintah.  I'm 
glad  fur  you,  my  dear,  seein'  you've  got  a  setment  of 
your  heart  on  him.  Won't  you  take  a  cheer  ?  It's 
raight  blustery  to-day,  ain't  it  ?"  But  E.  Mintah  poured 
out  her  joy  and  gratitude  standing,  and  was  much  too 
restless  to  settle  down  anywhere.  She  pulled  a  huge 
apple  out  of  her  pocket  with  diflSculty  and  gave  it  to 
Willy  with  a  kiss. 

"  Be  sure  and  give  your  Pa-ap  some,"  she  said.  "  I'd 
like  to  give  him  a  whole  orchard,  fur  he's  done  everything 
fur  me,"  she  said,  and  with  a  bright  look  and  "  good- 
by!"  scudded  home  to  tell  Mother  Newman  all  about 
it.  Jinny  White,  going  over  there  that  afternoon  with 
some  ginger-cakes  of  her  own  baking,  heard  of  it,  too. 
P 


226  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Mrs.  Newman  went  over  the  whole  affair, — indeed,  from 
beginning  to  end. 

"  I  was  set  agin'  it  at  first,"  she  said.  "  It  laid  rae  on 
a  care-bed  fur  a  long  while,  through  Matildy  bein'  so 
opposed,  mostly.  But  I'd  had  the  child  sence  she  wus 
a  baby.  And  she  set  there  and  sewed  day  upon  day, 
and  never  said  a  word,  but  the  tears  drapped  and 
drapped.  At  last  I  jes'  had  to  give  in,  after  that  there 
picnic,  when  she  come  back  to  me  scared  out  of  her 
senses  'bout  him,  and  me  thinkin'  him  killed.  I  never 
could  deny  that  Jonah  nothin'.  And  she  ain't  never 
give  me  an  answer  back  sence  I  took  her  out  of  that 
Lane  yonder,  nor  a  bit  uv  trouble.  Matildy,  she  was 
teariu',  ragin'  mad  'bout  it,  and  me  givin'  in.  She  says 
E.  Mintah  don'  know  nothin',  and  ain't  got  nothin', 
and  don'  belong  to  nobody.  And  that's  so.  We  ain't 
to  say  rich  exactly"  (looking  around  complacently  on 
her  miserable  surroundings),  "  but  we're  in  what  I  call 
comfortable  circumstances,  and  has  always  been  thought 
well  of  'Tain't  so  bad  to  me,  her  not  being  edgercated. 
I  ain't  no  scholard  myself  Matildy,  she  can  read  right 
off,  and  spell  'most  any  word  I  give  her,  and  write 
pretty  near  anything  she  puts  her  mind  on.  She's 
powerful  smart.  And  she's  alwaj's  talkin'  'bout  R. 
Mintah  havin'  no  edgercation.  But  I  don't  mind,  not 
havin'  one  myself.  I  laid  off  to  git  edgercated  onst ;  but 
I  knowed  it  would  take  three  months,  and  up  to  that 
the  children  had  come  so  fast  and  the  work  was  piled  so 
high  I  hadn't  got  it.  And  that  time  there  come  a  hard 
winter,  and  all  the  children  took  and  got  the  measles 
among  'em,  and  their  father  laid  down  with  the  lum- 
bago and  pine-knots  skase,  and  no  books,  nor  money  to 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  227 

buy  'em,  nor  nobody  to  rightly  know  what  they  said  ef 
I'd  of  had  'em,  so  I  clean  give  up  the  idee.  And  I  don't 
see  but  what  E.  Mintah  '11  do  well  ef  she  acts  right  by 
Jonah  and  all.     Do  you  ?" 

"  IS'o,  indeed,"  Jinny  agreed.  "  She's  got  enough  to 
do,  or  will  have,  without  wastin'  her  time  gittin'  edger- 
cated.  Give  me  ni}^  health,  and  a  good  stove,  and  a 
broom,  and  a  bucket,  and  a  dish-pan,  and  some  flat- 
irons,  and  anybody  can  take  hooks  that  likes,  and  get 
along  with  'em,  I  sez.  I  ain't  got  no  use  fur  'em,  and 
never  will  have,  nor  nobody  else  that's  got  to  work  fur 
a  livin',  is  what  I  sez.  Them  poor,  foolish,  rich  folks 
that  couldn't  milk  a  cow  or  bake  a  loaf  of  bread  ef  they 
died  fur  it  has  got  to  have  somethin'  in  their  heads, 
and  so  they  gits  edgercated,  and  sets  around  in  fine 
clothes,  and  does  nothin'  all  day,  and  looks  down  on 
sech  as  you  and  me.  But  I  reckon  ef  they  had  their 
livin'  to  make  they'd  find  out  what  their  edgercation 
was  wuth  mighty  quick  to  lean  on.  Hit's  a  poor  thing 
to  my  thinkin',  that  there  edgercation." 

"Well,  you  and  me's  agreed,"  said  Mrs.  Newman, 
"  and  I'll  never  hanker  fur  it  agin,  let  Matildy  say  what 
she  likes.  And  I'm  glad  Jonah  and  E.  Mintah's  made 
up  together.  It  was  his  fault.  Though  he's  my  son, 
and  knowed  to  be  my  son  always,  I  sez  agin  it  was  all 
his  foolishness,  along  of  that  Culbert  boy  bein'  here  all 
the  time  sparkin'  A.  Mander.  His  father  felt  mighty 
bad  'bout  his  quar'l  with  Marsh's  father,  him  bein'  killed 
that  way,  and  he  was  sorter  glad  for  him  to  come  here 
lately  as  a  make-peace,  and  wouldn't  send  him  oif  to 
please  Jonah.  And  I  knowed  how  it  was  fur  all,  but  I 
couldn't  move  'em,  father  nor  son.    Fur  though  he's  my 


228  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

husband,  and  I  ain't  never  said  but  what  he  was  my 
husband  whenever  asked,  he  certainly  is  the  setest  man 
in  his  own  way  that  ever  was  'ceptin  Jonah,  his  son, 
and  my  son  Hkewisc,  but  specially  his'n,  through  bein' 
a  mule  sometimes  fur  movin'  on,  both  of  'em,  and  a 
mountain  fur  stoppin'  still  right  in  their  tracks.  And 
that  A.  Mander,  she's  'most  as  bad.  But  it's  all  come 
right,  and  I  reckon  it'll  stay  right  now.  But  marriage- 
makin's  is  powerful  queer  when  you  come  to  think,  ain't 
they,  no w  ?  I  never  'lowed  to  see  a  Culbert  in  my  family, 
nor  my  Jonah  takin'  E.  Mintah  fur  a  partner,  shore  and 
certain.  And  I  reckon  I'll  see  queerer  things  than  them 
before  I  die,  ef  I  live  long  enough,  and  all  I've  got  to  do, 
I  tells  myself,  is  to  be  a  mother  to  one  and  all  and  treat 
'em  kind.  Jonah  '11  not  deny  but  what  I've  been  a 
mother  to  him,  and  A.  Mander's  done  said  she  w\as 
'shamed  of  how  she's  acted.  And  that  E.  Mintah  '11  be 
a  daughter  to  me  as  long  as  she  breathes  the  breath  of 
life.  Bless  her  little  heart !  It  ain't  only  Jonah  that 
loves  her,  but  pretty  nigh  everybody.  Eeach  me  that 
rollin'-pin,  Jinny,  and  I'll  do  the  children  some  figger- 
biscuits." 

In  this  pleasant  way  was  the  long  fever  of  disquiet 
that  had  been  the  portion  of  all  the  elder  members  of 
the  Newman  family  for  many  months  replaced  by  a 
healthier  and  happier  state  of  aifairs.  And  all  went 
well  for  some  time  with  Pap,  to  whom  it  was  duo,  and 
with  his  household  in  the  shed.  Burygj^ard  took  a 
start  suddenly  and  whistled  off  a  whole  strain  over 
which  he  had  been  halting  and  pouting  and  boggling 
for  months.  Bunny  had  never  been  brisker  or  more 
lively,  sharper  of  tooth  and  brighter  of  eye.     Willy,  as 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  229 

Pap  remarked,  "growed  like  a  weed,"  and  got  about 
an  inch  of  bare  leg  between  his  little  brogans  and  his 
ridiculously  big  but  woefully  short  trousers.  And  Pap 
was  very  busy  collecting  "kindlin"'  in  his  spare  time 
which  he  meant  to  sell  that  he  might  get  Willy  clothes 
and  send  him  to  school  when  winter  should  come.  The 
jug  in  the  old  chimney  was  empty,  had  tumbled  over 
on  its  side,  had  lost  its  cork,  was  covered  with  dust. 
And  the  serpent  in  Pap's  bosom  was  coiled,  motionless. 
"  I'm  gittin'  on  fur  an  old  man,  Willy  boy,  but  I'm 
feelin'  peart  as  Bunny  here  lately,  and  I'll  git  you  fixed 
up  and  started  right  on  the  road  you've  got  to  travel 
befo'  my  head  gits  cold.  Yes,  indeed.  See  ef  I  don't.  I 
thinks  a  heap  of  my  little  boy,  that's  my  inthought  all 
the  time,  and  my  darlin'  comfort ;  and  ef  I  could,  I'd  give 
him  a  gold  world  with  silver  fixin's  to  live  in,  and  never 
let  trouble  nor  nothin'  hurtful  come  nigh  him,"  he  said 
to  the  child  one  day  when  they  were  together  in  the 
woods  and  he  was  binding  withes  about  the  little  bundles 
of  pine,  five  in  a  bundle,  laid  out  before  him.  "  Lemmy 
see.  Twenty-five  a  bundle.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five, 
— that's  a  dollar  and  a  quarter.  We  are  layin'  it  up, 
honey !  Just  a-pilin'  it  up,  sure  as  you  are  born !  Hit's 
splendid,  this.  Jes'  tech  a  light  to  it,  and  it'll  flame 
right  up  in  your  face  like  ile,  hit's  so  rich.  The  fat's 
all  there ;  only  the  light's  wantin'  fur  a  blaze.  That's 
it.  Whur  they'se  made  like  this, — things,  that  is, — I 
ain't  talkin'  'bout  nothin'  pertikiler,  you  see, — ^you've 
got  not  to  have  no  lights  'roun' ;  you've  got  to  be 
mighty  keerful  to  keep  'em  away  from  each  other,  or 
you're  gone,  fur  it's  all  ready  and  waitin'  and  wantin' 
to  ketch  fire.     That's  the  trouble  with — some.     Don't 

20 


230  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

you  try  to  fetch  in  more'n  one  bundle ;  you  ain't  big 
enough  yit  to  carry  more,  honey.  Pa-ap  '11  hobble  along 
some  way  or  other  with  the  rest,  ef  he  is  gittin'  on  fur 
an  old  man  and  crippled  'bout  the  legs  like  all  Company 
C  is." 

He  did  not  look  a  very  old  man,  but  a  gaunt  and 
grizzled  one,  as  he  stood  beside  Willy  leaning  on  his 
crutch,  the  bundles  gathered  up  under  his  arm, — over 
six  feet,  with  a  patient  slope  to  his  shoulders  that 
seemed  to  tell  of  grievous  burdens  long  and  meekly 
borne.  The  attraction  of  gravitation  had  visibly  af- 
fected everything  about  him.  His  long,  delicately-dis- 
tinct brows,  and  the  corners  of  his  sensitive  mouth,  ran 
down.  So  did  the  heels  of  his  shoes.  His  coat,  of  as 
many  colors  as  Joseph's,  yet  of  none  (predominant  that 
is  and  universal),  swagged  in  the  back  in  a  series  of 
ripples  like  a  lake  into  which  Pap,  a  stone,  had  been 
thrown.  The  very  wrinkles  in  his  trousers,  seen  from 
the  back,  swept  in  a  low-spirited  way  below  his  calves. 
But  the  deep  crow's-feet  about  his  eyes  showed  that 
nature  had  done  what  she  could  to  make  honorable 
amends  for  the  depressing  turn  given  to  the  whole  outer 
man  by  destiny.  A  constitutionally  cheerful  temper 
had  been  bestowed  upon  him — a  philosophic  calm,  and 
capacity  for  meditation,  as  opposed  to  exertion — that 
would  have  made  him  a  haj)py  man  but  for  the  "  but" 
that  in  some  form  or  other  always  mars  such  gracious 
designs ;  bwt  for  all  that  made  him  wiiat  he  was,  instead 
of  somebody  else.  A  happy  man  he  was,  in  spite  of 
everything,  for  some  months,  during  which  the  "  heap 
of  kindlin' "  grew  larger  and  larger  and  Pap's  hopes 
and  plans  had  swelled  to  match  until  he  actually  had 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  231 

"Willy  grown,  educated,  and — ^pardon  so  much  to  his 
ignorance — in  Congress. 

And  then — I  hate  to  write  it — there  was  another  dis- 
appearance, more  mystery,  wrath,  grief. 

The  serpent  had  waked  to  life.  The  poor  pine  had 
been  there  all  along,  and  the  devil  had  supplied  a  light ; 
the  consuming  flame  raged  high  again,  and  Matilda, 
with  a  fiend's  laugh  of  exultation,  said,  "  Pa-ap's  drunk ! 
I  knowed  it  would  come."  It  was  the  same  experience 
over  again,  — the  same  temptation,  fall,  remorse.  The 
"kindHn"'  had  been  sold;  but  Willy  had  gained  nothing 
by  the  transaction,  and  Pap  had  lost  much.  The  pictures 
in  the  shed-room  were  all  taken  down  again  by  a  pair 
of  trembling  hands,  and  an  unhappy  creature  took  up 
his  life  again,  having  bound  a  heavier  burden  than  ever 
upon  his  back. 

'•Johnny  Shore  never  was  no  'count  noway.  He's 
goin'  the  way  of  his  father,"  said  the  Mountain,  which 
respected  Mr.  Carver,  who,  if  he  was  rarely  sober,  did 
his  drinking  in  a  large  stone  farm-house  set  on  a  fine, 
large  unencumbered  farm,  and  said  of  him,  with  positive 
pride  in  the  possession  of  such  a  financial  magnate,  that 
"  he  had  been  found  drunk  with  as  much  as  a  hundred 
dollars  about  his  clothes." 

But  "  Johnny  Shore,"  who  had  given  away  his  cottage 
and  every  acre  of  his  patrimony,  and  could  rarely  afford 
to  indulge  a  vice  at  all, — "  Johnny  Shore"  was  utterly 
contemptible,  and  "  no  'count,"  of  course. 


232  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


VIII. 

"  Keep  thy  purse  and  thou  shalt  keep  thy  friend  also." — Monjik 
Proverb. 

The  view  from  the  old  cottage  porch  was  one  that 
might  have  been  coveted  for  a  palace,  so  fine  was  the 
distant  magnificence  of  the  three  chains  of  mountains 
to  the  right,  rising  one  behind  the  other,  with  purple 
shadows  and  transparent  mists  folded  and  floating  be- 
tween ;  so  fair  the  wide,  sunlit  plain  in  the  foreground ; 
80  nobly  protecting  and  encompassing  the  Eidge  stand- 
ing sturdily  up  in  defence  of  Virginia  and  Virginians 
away  to  the  left.  Nothing  was  wanting  except  the 
eyes  to  see  and  appropriate  all  this  beauty ;  but  these 
had  been  denied  Matilda,  who  came  out,  indeed,  and 
looked  about  her  with  frowning  impatience  one  morn- 
ing during  the  "  ingathering"  (as  harvest  time  is  prettily 
called  on  the  Mountain),  but  saw  nothing  of  it. 

"  Whur's  that  good-for-nothin'  old  Lawrence*  gone 
to  now  ?"  she  demanded,  angrily,  of  nobody  in  particular. 
"Willy!  Willy!" 

In  response  to  this  call  Willy  came  forward  reluctantly 
from  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  concealing  in- 
stinctively as  he  got  within  view  the  top  with  which 
he  had  been  playing. 

*  "  Lawrence"  is  doubtless  a  term  of  English  origin.  It  was 
applied  in  early  days  in  Virginia  to  a  shirk  at  **  house-raisings," 
"log-rollings,"  and  "ingatherings"  (of  harvests),  but  is  now  used 
in  a  broadly  contemptuous  sense. 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  EIDGE.  233 

"  Here  !  here  1  What  you  been  doin'  'round  there  ?" 
she  asked,  shai-ply.     "Nothin'  good,  I'll  be  bound." 

TVilly  flushed  guiltily  and  tried  to  thrust  the  crimi- 
nating top  still  farther  behind  his  back. 

"  You  go  find  your  Pa-ap,  and  tell  him  ef  he  'spects 
to  git  a  bite  of  vittles  in  my  house  this  mornin'  he'd 
better  be  quick  about  it,  do  you  hear?" 

"  Ya — m,"  assented  Willy,  and  she  went  in-doors 
again,  banging  the  door  after  her. 

Thus  commissioned,  he  limped  about  the  place  a  bit 
in  search  of  Pap,  but  soon  made  up  his  mind  that  that 
was  useless,  and  started  out  into  the  Eed  Lane.  He 
left  that  presently,  and,  climbing  the  fence,  struck  across 
a  field.  Arrived  at  its  farthest  point,  he  put  his  hands 
on  his  hips  and  struck  an  attitude,  with  his  haystack 
hat  pushed  off  his  sweet  face,  the  little-big  breeches 
girded  high  up  under  his  shoulder-blades  and  armpits, 
and  his  wonderful  waistcoat  dropping  to  his  calves. 

"  Pa-ap !  Pa-ap  !  Oh,  Pa-ap  !"  he  shrieked  in  his  high- 
est treble  pipe.  "  Pa-ap !"  But  he  got  no  answer.  He 
tried  another  "Pa-ap!  Come  to  breakfast,"  and  still 
getting  no  response,  turned  away. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  home,  his  pace  had  slackened, 
and  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  on  now.  The  sun  was 
lighting  up  brilliantly  a  delightful  world.  The  air  was 
sweet  with  a  thousand  woodland  scents.  Swarms  of 
yellow  butterflies  were  challenging  him  for  a  chase. 
Eirds  were  flying  about  overhead,  and  lighting  in  this 
op-that  tree.  The  last  daisies  of  the  season  were  beo-- 
ging  to  have  their  heads  switched  off  by  his  whip, — his 
new  whip  that  Pap  had  given  him,  and  that  he  had 
been  cracking  ever  since.     Surely  that  was  a  minnow 

20* 


234  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

that  flashed  in  the  light,  a8  he  came  to  the  brook  that, 
if  followed,  would  lead  through  the  lower  meadows 
straight  into  the  Landons'  spring-house.  And  now  a 
snake-hole  this.  What  bliss  to  drag  a  serpent  out  by 
the  tail  as  Jonah  did  last  week !  How  good  "  the  feel" 
of  the  wet  grass. 

It  was  not  in  boy-nature  to  be  in  frantic  haste  to 
carry  other  people's  messages  and  neglect  all  these  in- 
vitations to  idleness,  but  after  a  while  Willy  did  go  on, 
reluctantly,  across  two  meadows  and  a  stubble-field, 
and  as  he  approached  some  haystacks  set  on  the  edge 
of  a  wood  he  heard  sounds  that  set  him  off  into  a 
painful,  dragging  movement  which  was  his  nearest 
approach  to  a  run.  This  soon  brought  him  flushed 
and  smiling  to  a  certain  fence-corner  in  which  Pap  was 
seated,  with  his  violin  tucked  under  his  chin,  playing 
away  in  the  most  absorbed  enjoyment  of  his  own  music, 
the  day,  the  view,  and  his  surroundings  generally. 

"  I  knowed  you'd  be  here !"  exclaimed  the  child,  rush- 
ing against  and  violently  arresting  the  ecstatic  swing 
of  the  arm  that  held  the  bow,  and  then,  dropping  down 
beside  him  on  the  grass,  he  turned  a  frolicsome  somer- 
sault that  ended  in  his  coming  up  vis-a-vis  to  his  com- 
panion with  straws  sticking  in  his  hair  and  his  w^aist- 
coat  very  much  hitched  up  in  the  back. 

*'Git  up,  my  son.  That  ain't  pretty.  Look  at  your 
close,  all  every-which-er-way !"  The  tone  was  one  of 
remonstrance,  but  was  neutralized  by  the  tenderness 
that  literally  suffused  Pap's  face  whenever  he  looked  at 
the  child, — a  beautiful  look  of  deep  love  that  seemed  to 
take  away  all  that  was  harsh  in  the  prominent  features 
and  worn  lines  of  the  face. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  235 

He  had  laid  his  instrument  down  on  the  grass,  and 
now  took  it  up  gently,  saying,  "  I'll  play  you  a  chune, 
Willy  boy.  You'd  like  the  '  Fisher's  Hornpipe,'  now, 
wouldn't  you  ?" 

"  ]S"ot  now,  Pa-ap.  There  ain't  no  time.  Breakfast's 
ready,  and  you'd  better  hurry,  I  tell  you!'''  advised  Willy, 
sagely. 

"  Eeady,  is  it  ?  I  hadn't  no  idee  it  was  so  late,"  Pap 
replied,  an  anxious  light  coming  into  his  eyes,  the 
ready  smile  that  had  carved  such  deep  "  crow's-feet" 
around  them  dying  out.  Eising  to  his  feet,  he  carefully 
wrapped  his  violin  in  its  bit  of  faded  shawl,  and,  glanc- 
ing over  his  shoulder  at  the  child,  said,  "  Is  she  very — 
hainh?" 

Willy  understood,  and  nodded  emphatically  and 
gravely. 

"Yery  well,  sonny,  then  we  will  hurry.  It  didn't 
seem  to  me  like  the  sun  was  that  high.  When  I  gits  to 
fiddlin'  I  don't  take  no  'count  uv  the  shadows,  though, 
and  that's  the  truth.  I  reckon  I'll  ketch  it  hot  and 
heavy  this  time.  'Tain't  the  first  time,  either,"  said 
the  old  man,  the  twinkle  coming  back  to  his  eye  as  he 
spoke.  "Well,  I've  been  under  fire  before  now;  I 
reckon  I  kin  stand  and  take  it.  She's  always  sour  at 
best.  Jim — poor  Jim ! — usened  to  say  she'd  been  weaned 
on  pickles.  I  lost  a  friend  when  I  lost  him,  I  tell  you, 
Willy.  We  was  like  helmlocks  and  spruces  in  the  war. 
When  you  seed  one,  you  hadn't  far  to  look  for  t'other, 
and  there  never  was  a  day  he  wouldn't  share  his  tobacco 
with  me.  You're  sorter  blowed  with  runnin',  ain't  you, 
honey  ?  Will  I  carry  you  a  piece  ?  I  kin,  I  reckon,  till 
we  git  over  to  that  ploughed  field  yonder.    Come  'long." 


236  BEHIND   TUE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

Nothing  loath,  Willy  climbed  up  and  up,  and  finally 
perched  on  his  shoulder,  and  slipped  his  little  walnut- 
stained  hand  around  Pap's  neck. 

"  You  take  the  fiddle  and  I'll  pack  you  both.  Hold 
on  tight,"  cautioned  the  old  man,  and  off  they  started, 
but  at  a  leisurely  pace,  for  the  rhythm  of  Pap's  being 
was  such  that  even  in  his  youth  and  prime  he  had  been 
constitutionally  incapable  of  haste. 

Knowing  quite  well  the  necessity  for  speed,  he  stopped 
twice  on  the  way:  once  to  let  Willy  gather  some  leaves 
from  a  maple-bough  that  drooped  temptingly  overhead, 
and  another  time  when  a  rabbit  darted  past  and  stopped 
at  a  little  distance  in  front  of  them. 

"  Thar  he  is !  Notice  how  he  sweeps  them  ears  of 
his'n  'round.  The  cunnin'  little  cotton-tail!  He  looks 
like — folks,  now,  don't  he  ?"  commented  Pap,  and  Willy 
drummed  delightedly  on  the  old  man's  chest  with  his 
heels,  and  was  for  jumping  down  and  going  after  it,  but 
was  not  allowed. 

Arrived  at  the  steps  of  their  house,  the  child  was 
put  down  and  given  the  violin.  "Here,  honey,  you  jes' 
run  around  with  this  and  put  it  in  the  box  under  my 
bed  whur  it  always  stays.  En  don't  you  knock  it  'gin 
nothin',  or  I'll  give  you  a  laced  jacket." 

Unterrified  by  this  threat,  to  which  he  was  quite  used 
and  took  at  its  exact  value,  Willy  only  said,  "Will  yer 
wait  fur  me,  Pa-ap  ?     Wait  fur  me." 

"  Course  I  will.  Don't  you  be  afeard,  my  son.  I 
ain't.  I  don't  kyur."  At  this  moment  the  front-door 
opened,  and  involuntarily  Pap  dropped  back  three  steps 
on  the  path. 

It  was  only  his  son  Alfred.    "  I  heerd  you,  Pa-ap.    Como 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  237 

in.  Mr.  Carver's  happened  in  to  breakfast  with  us,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  made  more  indistinct  by  the  food  in 
his  mouth.  He  winked  knowingly  and  reassuringly 
as  he  spoke,  and  Willy  having  returned  they  all  walked 
together  into  the  dining-room,  where  Matilda  and  Mr. 
Carver  were  seated  at  table. 

"  Howdy !  I  hope  you  see  yourself  well,"  said  Pap, 
ducking  his  head  in  greeting  to  the  latter  from  the  door. 
Getting  a  half  nod  in  return,  he  went  forward,  took  his 
usual  seat,  and  put  his  feet  up  on  the  rounds  of  his 
chair  when  he  had  seen  Willy  comfortably  settled  next 
to  himself 

Mr.  Carver,  an  enormously  stout  man,  with  a  small, 
cautious,  elephantine  eye  sunk  well  in  the  back  of  his 
head,  now  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  indulge 
in  one  of  his  most  prolonged  bovine  stares. 

"  'Tildy,  your  coffee's  powerful  good,"  said  Alfred, 
after  about  five  minutes  had  passed  without  her  taking 
the  least  notice  of  his  father.  "  I  ain't  never  poured 
better  down  my  throat.  I've  done  had  two  cups.  Give 
Pa-ap  a  cup,  ef  it  ain't  all  done  been  drunk  up." 

"You  talk  like  there  warn't  always  plenty, — like  we 
had  to  count  noses,  like  some," — she  snapped,  "when 
I've  got  more  on  the  fire,  and  ten  pounds  in  the  house. 
What  '11  Mr.  Carver  be  sayin'  ?" 

"Well,  give  Pa-ap  a  good  cup,"  said  Alfred.  "He's 
waitin'  here  fur  it." 

Now  Pap's  pictures,  alas!  had  been  down  again  a 
few  weeks  before,  and  he  was  in  the  worst  possible 
favor  with  his  shrewish  daughter-in-law,  who  gave  him 
a  spiteful  look  as  she  dashed  a  liberal  supply  of  hot 
water  into  a  cup,  colored  it  faintly  with  an  odious  de- 


238  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

coction  of  chicor}',  omitted  the  sugar  altogether,  and 
passed  the  delightful  mixture  up  to  its  destination,  say- 
ing, contemptuously,  "Well,  what  of  that?  Let  him 
wait  and  welcome." 

Alfred  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He  passed 
his  hands  instantl}'  across  his  mouth,  rubbed  his  nose 
upward  very  briskly  a  few  times,  and  got  off  a  glitter- 
ing generality  to  restore  the  impersonal  tone  of  the 
conversation. 

"  'Pears  like  folks  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  able  to  meat  thar- 
selves  this  year.  Mast  is  mighty  skase,"  he  said,  avert- 
ing his  eyes  from  his  spouse. 

"  I  don't  jedge  so.  Nothin'  of  the  sort.  Whur  did 
you  git  that  foolishness?"  said  Mr.  Carver,  who,  as  one 
of  the  large  farmers  of  the  neighborhood, — a  represent- 
ative one,  he  considered, — felt  it  to  be  at  once  his  duty 
and  privilege  to  contradict  every  statement  about  agri- 
culture that  did  not  emanate  from  what  he  believed  to 
be  the  proper  source.  With  thirty  hogs  waiting  to  bo 
killed,  Mr.  Carver  was  not  going  to  be  told  that  any 
scarcity  existed. 

"En  what  if  it  is?"  he  added,  turning  his  huge  body 
around  towards  Alfred,  and  looking  at  him  with  severe 
disapproval.  "  What  ef  it  it  is  ?  Feed  'em  on  corn,,  I 
say."  With  a  largo  barn  in  his  mental  background 
bursting  with  that  cereal,  Mr.  Carver  could  afford 
liberal  views. 

"  Pass  up  your  cup,  Mr.  Carver,"  said  Matilda,  affably, 
much  impressed  b}^  the  insolence  of  his  prosperity,  and 
his  condescension  in  consenting  to  breakfast  at  the 
cottage.  "Don't  be  bashful.  And  take  another  biscuit. 
Take  two." 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  239 

Nothing  had  been  offered  Pap  all  this  time,  and 
Willy  noticed  it. 

"  You  ain't  got  nothin'  to  eat,  Pa-ap,"  he  whispered, 
anxiously.     "  What  '11  you  do  ?" 

"  Take  a  bite  of  shoat  ?"  said  Alfred,  who  heard  this ; 
and,  without  waiting  for  a  response,  he  took  advantage 
of  Matilda's  being  occupied  to  furtively  convey  a  s^Dare- 
rib  to  his  father's  plate  and  hastily  add  a  biscuit. 

He  had  barely  accomplished  this  when  he  caught 
Matilda's  eye,  sat  up  suddenly  in  his  chair,  transfixed  a 
230tato  with  his  fork,  and  said,  "  Days  is  begun  to  close 
in,"  as  if  uttering  a  solemn  verity, — very  much,  indeed, 
as  though  he  were  giving  out  a  text. 

"  Is  that  all  what  you're  goin'  to  git,  Pa-ap  ?  Won't 
she  give  you  no  more  ?"  whispered  AYilly  again. 

"  Ssh  !  Don't  you  werrit  'bout  Pa-ap,  honey,"  the  old 
man  whispered  back.  "  I'll  take  some  pertaters.  They 
sticks  by  the  ribs,  and  are  mighty  fillin'.  Don't  you 
want  some  ?" 

He  did  a  little  private  foraging  on  his  own  account, 
accordingly,  sub  Eosa-Matilda  (Mrs.  Alfred  Shore's  full 
name),  and,  coming  to  the  surface  of  polite  society  again, 
waxed  conversational. 

"I  seed  Mat  Childers,  yesterday,"  he  said,  "from 
down  'bout  the  Eidge,  and  he  says  the  corn  do  look 
pitiful  down  there  this  summer, — pitiful.  Farmin's  a 
powerful  sight  of  trouble,  anyways.  Seasons  is  got  so, 
what's  good  fur  corn  is  bad  fur  wheat;  likewise  con- 
trarywise ;  and  pasture  is  givin'  out,  I  can  see.  I'll 
thank  you  fur  a  biscuit,  Alfred.  Yes,  ef  I  was  a  young 
man,  and  had  ray  time  to  go  over  agin,  I'd  turn  my 
back  on  ole  Yirginny  mighty  quick,  and  go  whur  you 


240  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

kin  git  out  your  two  crops  every  year  as  shore  as 
summer  comes  'round." 

Mr.  Carver,  who  was  scraping  off  the  gravy  and  potato 
from  his  knife  on  the  edge  of  his  plate,  now  stopped, 
and  as  he  looked  at  Pap  his  heavy  lower  jaw  seemed  to 
settle  down  in  his  throat  with  a  movement  of  angry 
remonstrance. 

"  That's  all  blamed  taradiddle  foolishness  you're 
talkin',"  he  said.  "  That's  what  it  is.  There  ain't  no 
sech  country.  No  land  that  God  ever  made  '11  give  no 
two  crops  in  one  year.  No,  sir.  The  best  field  I've 
got  wouldn't  do  it  ef  it  was  kivered  knee-deep  with 
these  here  new  phosphites  that  some  uses  ;  and  there 
ain't  better  fields  on  the  face  of  the  yearth.  As  fur 
farmin',  the  land  sticks  by  them  that  sticks  by  her. 
Now  you've  heerd  my  horn." 

With  an  emphatic  nod  he  went  back  to  his  knife- 
cleaning,  feeling  that  he  had  been  final,  put  half  a  bis- 
cuit into  his  right  cheek,  and  devoted  himself  in  pon- 
derous silence  to  the  business  before  him  again. 

"  You  see,  Pa-ap,  he's  a  mover,"  put  in  Matilda,  per- 
sonifying a  peculiarity  after  the  fashion  so  noticeable  in 
the  homespun  English  of  the  Yalley.  "  You  can't  keep 
him  in  no  one  place  no  more  'n  the  sun.  He's  been  out 
to  Californy,  and  Texis,  and  I  don't  know  whur.  Yir- 
ginny  ain't  good  enough  fur  him.  He's  been  all  'round. 
But  /don't  see  what  he's  got  by  it." 

She  gave  an  insulting  laugh.  The  color  rose  to  Pap's 
face,  and  the  wrinkled,  toil-worn  hand  that  held  his 
coffee-cup  to  his  lips  trembled  violently,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"'Tiidy!    'Tildy!"  exclaimed  Alfred,  with  feeble-for- 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  241 

cible  indignation.  And  then  in  alarm  he  coughed  os- 
tentatiously, made  a  lunge  forward  upon  the  butter- 
dish with  his  knife,  and,  having  helped  himself  to  about 
a  quarter  of  a  pound,  gave  out  another  text  solemnly : 
*'  Hum  !     Turnips  is  feelin'  the  wet." 

"  What's  the  use  of  goin'  a-ramblin'  and  a-scramblin' 
over  the  world,  anyways?"  demanded  Mr.  Carver,  ener- 
getically. "  What  do  I  want  to  go  to  Agy  and  to  Spagy 
and  'way  oif  yonder  beyant  Milltown  fur?"  (A  village 
twelve  miles  distant.)  "  I  ain't  been  fifty  mile  from  home 
fur  sixty  3'ear.  ]S'o,  sir!  And  that  time  was  when  my 
father  moved  up  here  from  Albemarle,  and  brought  me 
'long  with  him.  That's  all  the  traveUin'  ever  /did  or 
means  to  do.  What's  the  gain  of  travellin'  ?  Whar's 
any  better  place  'n  ole  Yirginny  ?  Tell  me  that.  Hit's 
the  best  place  that's  been  made  at  all,  and  I've  got  the 
best  farm  in  the  State." 

Mr.  Carver  shared  the  general  and  natural  delusion 
of  farmers,  and  of  course  he  was  not  contradicted  in  a 
company  composed  of  his  social  inferiors. 

"  Well,  we've  been  put  here "  began  Pap. 

"  That's  what  I  say.  Let  folks  stay  whur  they're 
put,  and  there  won't  be  no  travellin'  but  what's  needful 
right  'round  you.  What's  the  use  of  havin'  places  ef 
folks  won't  stay  in  'em  ?  What's  the  use  of  havin'  places 
at  all  ?  Counties, — this  here  county  ?  You  might  as 
well  be  in  Clarke  or  Loudon  to  oust!"  said  Mr.  Carver, 
and  looked  about  him  wildly  and  angrily  as  he  pounded 
the  table  with  his  huge  fist,  as  if  the  foundations  of 
society  were  being  broken  up,  and  the  idea  of  an  illim- 
itable waste  of  territory,  in  which  a  Carver  might  be 
anywhere,  was  insupportable  and  not  to  be  borne  for  a 

^         q  21 


242  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDQE. 

moment.  '•  I  don't  want  to  go  nowhur  at  all,  and  I 
don't  want  no  furriners  corain'  in  here.  Furriners  is 
bein'  the  ruin  of  this  country  now.  They're  comin'  in 
from  Deer  Crik"  (six  miles  off)  ''  and  Winston  and  Mill- 
town  and  'way  beyant  Caton,  and  they're  just  bein'  the 
ruination  of  business  and  the  handlin'  of  crops  and 
everything,"  he  concluded,  with  temper.  "  Folks  was 
made  fur  places,  places  was  made  fur  folks,  and  it  spiles 
both  to  separate  them;  hit's  the  ruination  of  both. 
Stay  whur  you're  put  is  what  I  sez  all  the  time,  and 
does,  moreover." 

The  places  Mr.  Carver  had  mentioned  were  all  in  his 
immediate  neighborhood,  and  his  "  furriners"  were  all 
native  Virginians;  but  when  he  talked  of  "this  coun- 
try" he  meant  to  use  the  word  not  in  the  broad  sense 
of  the  United  States,  or  even  his  own  State,  but  in  the 
restricted  one  of  his  own  county.  Every  county  was  a 
country  to  Mr.  Carver,  and  his  own  county  was  the 
country. 

Poor  Pap  was  too  abashed  to  attempt  to  defend  his 
views,  and  Alfred  never  had  any  views  to  defend ;  but 
Matilda  came  shrilling  in  with  :  "  You're  'bout  right 
there,  I  reckon,  Mr.  Carver.  I'm  fur  folks  stayin'  at 
home,  and  mindin'  their  own  business  too.  Only  some 
of  'em's  so  triflin'  they  ain't  got  no  business  to  mind." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Pap,  who  had  made  the  expected 
application  of  an  apparently  abstract  statement.  "Nor 
no  homes,  neither.     More  fools  they." 

"  Oh,  ef  bein'  a  fool  was  all,  it  could  be  stood ;  but 

when    there's   wuss    behind "    said    Matilda,    who, 

being  an  incarnate  nutmeg-grater,  was  now  quite  in  her 
element. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  2^3 

"Ahum!  ahum!"  broke  in  Alfred,  in  mortal  dread  of 
a  collision.  And  then  shooting  out  his  eyes  at  the 
inoffensive  milk-pitcher  on  his  right,  he  announced, 
gravely,  "Patridges  has  been  seen  'round,"  a  remark 
that  elicited  no  reply  whatever. 

Having  finished  his  breakfast,  and  being  anxious  to 
efface  himself,  Pap  now  pushed  back  his  chair  a  little 
and  tilted  it,  and  crossed  his  hands  above  his  head.  He 
sat  there  for  some  moments,  silent,  while  Mr.  Carver 
and  Alfred  talked  of  sport ;  but,  being  very  social  in  his 
instincts,  he  presently  joined  in  their  conversation, 
saying,  "  I've  often  heerd  my  father  talk  'bout  old  times 
in  this  country  time  and  time  agin.  These  hills  was 
just  choke-full  uv  bar,  and  deer,  and  all  sorts  of  game 
then,  and  now  you're  mighty  lucky  ef  you  git  a  few 
wild  turkeys." 

"  Yenison  certainly  is  a  well-tasted  dish,"  remarked 
Mr.  Carver  to  Matilda,  with  an  impressive  stare  at  each 
of  the  company  in  turn,  and  the  air  of  a  man  of  liberal 
views  making  a  dangerously  novel  statement,  which, 
however  unpopular  it  may  be,  he  is  prepared  to  stand 
by  and  uphold  at  any  cost. 

"  Take  another  Qgg  ef  you  don't  mislike  'em  biled," 
said  Matilda,  obsequiously.  "Don't  you  be  backward, 
now,  in  comin'  forrard.  '  Yittles'  praise  is  said  by  stays.* 
But  I  forgit.     He  !  he  !  he  !     You  don't  wear  'era  !" 

"  ^o,  I'm  'bleeged  to  you,  marm,"  replied  Mr.  Carver, 
alluding  to  the  proffered  Qgg  and  not  smiling  at  all  at 
the  witticism.  Mr.  Carver  was  not  aware  that  in  say- 
ing "  marm"  he  was  only  following  the  most  fashionable 
precedent, — that  of  the  court  set  of  long  ago,  whose 
languishing  pronunciation  of  madam  has  filtered  down 


244  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

through  English  nobles  to  English  commoners,  and 
finally  to  Virginian  mountaineers.  Nor  did  he  know 
when  he  turned  his  cup  bottom  upward  in  the  saucer, 
and  balanced  the  spoon  carefully  on  top,  as  an  act  of 
final  renunciation  and  intimation  that  he  was  superior 
to  any  and  every  temj^tation,  that  he  was  perpetuating 
a  fashion  that  used  to  obtain  in  the  finest  companies, — 
a  signal  mark  of  high  breeding  in  the  great  ladies  and 
silken  gallants  of  a  past  period, — now  the  "  manners"  of 
a  rustic  Virginian  whom  the^^  would  have  called  "a 
varlet." 

"  I  reckon  there  '11  be  a  chance  fur  some  of  us  to  taste 
the  feast-pot  soon.  You've  heerd  'bout  the  weddin' 
that's  comin'  off  in  the  neighborhood,  ain't  yer?"  said 
Alfred,  presenting  a  new  topic  of  conversation  respect- 
fully to  the  notice  of  the  great  man.  "  Pa-ap  here  plays 
in  the  musical  line,  and  he's  goin'  to  do  the  fiddlin'. 
He  can  make  right  smart  noise  when  he  gits  started. 
He  jerks  an  uncommon  lively  bow."  Alfred  was  proud 
of  his  father's  reputation  as  the  best  musician  in  the 
country-side,  and  was  divided  between  a  desire  to  seem 
dispassionate  and  a  wish  to  do  him  justice. 

The  remark,  however,  was  unfortunate.  Mr.  Carver 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  profound  contempt  that 
filled  his  whole  mind  at  the  mere  mention  of  such  a 
frivolous  pursuit.  He  knew  that  Pap  had  another 
weakness,  which  in  a  rich  man,  and  especially  in  him- 
self, wore  the  aspect  of  a  venial  foible,  not  a  sin  that 
need  interfere  with  a  well-to-do  farmer's  being  saved 
in  the  least.  But  the  man  who  "  fiddled"  was  hardly 
worth  the  damning,  according  to  Mr.  Carver's  creed. 
He  looked  across  the  table  at  Pap  with  a  grim  disap- 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  245 

probation  that  bordered  on  dislike,  and  thought  that 
he  "  'peared  like  a  man  that  '  fiddled.'  " 

"  Peter  Eobinson  !"  he  exclaimed,  when  the  feathered 
idea  had  fully  made  its  way  through  his  thick  skull. 
"  You  play  the  fiddle,  do  you  ?  In  the  name  of  good- 
ness, is  that  all  you've  got  to  do?  Can't  you  find 
nothin'  better  to  do?" 

Pap  unclasped  his  hands,  stopped  tilting  his  chair, 
and  colored  again ;  but  being  thoroughly  accustomed  to 
hearing  music  ranked  among  the  vicious  puerilities  of 
life,  he  said  nothing  in  defence  of  it,  and  Mr.  Carver 
went  on  :  "  Who's  this  here  a-gittin'  married  ?" 

"Hit's  my  wife's  brother,  Jonah,"  replied  Alfred. 

"Who's  he  a-weddin'?"  asked  Mr.  Carver,  still  disap- 
provingly, as  if  all  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage 
were  distasteful  to  him. 

"  That  girl, — that  orphelin' Hello  !    Simon  Peter 

and  Stone  well  Jackson  !    Come  in  !    Come  here !"  inter- 
rupted Pap. 

This  last  was  a  combination  hardly  to  be  expected 
in  this  world,  though  presumably  not  an  unnatural  one 
in  the  next,  where  the  sturdy  soldier  and  simple  fisher- 
man may  be  on  very  good  terms,  for  all  we  know. 
The  salutation  was  meant  for  two  barefooted,  frowsy 
boys,  who  had  come  in  and  were  hanging  irresolutely 
around  the  door,  staring  as  only  the  youthful  rustic 
can.  Stonewall  Jackson,  unlike  his  distinguished  name- 
sake, was  not  prepared  to  advance  even  when  thus  en- 
couraged, but  took  up  a  strong  position  in  the  rear  and 
would  not  budge. 

His  twin  brother,  rounding  his  eyes  a  little  more 
than  usual,  advanced  as  if  under  some  mesmeric  spell, 

21* 


246  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

or  as  if  he  were  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  when  he  got 
quite  close  to  Pap  fell  to  twirling  his  hat,  which  for  a 
wonder  he  had  doffed.  lie  looked  up,  he  looked  down, 
he  looked  around  at  "  Stone"  for  inspiration,  perhaps, 
to  see  if  there  was  any  way  of  escape  open  to  him,  and 
then  in  a  loud  voice  and  in  a  disjointed,  mechanical 
fashion  delivered  the  message  with  which  he  was 
charged — under  fire :  "  Pa-ap,  mother  says  to  come 
there  to  onst  to  go  to  town  to  git  the  fixin's  that's 
wanted  fur  Jonah's  weddin'." 

"All  right.  Indeed  and  double  deed  I  will,  sonny. 
Go  back  and  tell  your  ma  certainly,  I'll  be  there  te- 
reckly,"  replied  Pap,  promptly,  and  his  kind  smile 
played  lambently  on  the  boys  as  he  filched  a  biscuit 
apiece  for  them  from  under  the  very  nose  of  the 
enemy. 

The  boys  got  a  little  more  human  under  this  applica- 
tion, and  now  fell  into  the  background  with  Willy,  and 
even  smiled  and  fell  to  comparing  their  knives  with  his 
presently.  The  interruption  broke  up  the  party,  and 
Mr.  Carver  rose  and  said  he  had  "  'lowed  to  be  further 
before  then,"  and  made  his  farewells. 

"  This  here's  a  tol'able  old  house,  ain't  it?"  he  asked, 
as  he  was  mounting  his  horse. 

"  Over  a  hundred  year.  And  there  never  was  a 
better  builded.  It  ain't  had  no  work  much  done  on  it 
sence.  I  love  ev'y  stone  in  it,"  said  Pap,  ghuicing  up 
at  it  affectionately. 

"  Oh,  then  this  here  is  your  house?"  said  Mr.  Carver, 
settling  his  foot  in  the  stirrup. 

'  "  Yes.  That  is,  hit's  my  son's"  he  explained.  "  But 
I  reckon  it'll  outhist  us  both,  and  a  good  many  more 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  247 

like  us.  I've  done  give  it  to  my  son."  Poor  Pap  was 
not  unwilling  that  Mr.  Carver  should  know  that  he  had 
not  always  been  as  he  was, — homeless  and  penniless. 
But  this  was  worse  than  "fiddlin"':  it  was  lunacy  to 
Mr.  Carver's  mind ;  and  Pap  did  not  even  get  a  word 
of  farewell  by  way  of  recognition  of  his  past  respecta- 
bility. He  felt  wounded  and  humiliated  when  Mr. 
Carver  rode  away  on  his  handsome  horse  with  only  a 
*'  Good-day,  marm,"  and  a  "  Come  over,  Alfred,  and 
we'll  see  'bout  that  there  colt."  And  he  was  still  stand- 
ing at  the  gate,  wrapped  in  unpleasant  revery,  when  he 
felt  some  one  tugging  at  his  coat.  It  was  "  Stone" 
Newman,  holding  a  rabbit  in  his  hand  which  he  was 
shyly  proffering.  "  I  caught  this  fur  you  this  mornin', 
Pa-ap.  I've  been  layin'  fur  it  fur  a  week.  Here,  take 
it,"  he  said,  and  was  surprised  by  the  warmth  of  Pap's 
thanks. 

"Why,  bless  your  little  heart!  Did  you  now? 
Caught  it  fur  Pa-ap,  that  ain't  got  nothin'  to  give  you 
back.  Well,  that  was  the  kindest !  Thanky,  my  son. 
Lord,  what  a  world  'twould  be  without  children  and 
dogs  and  sech  like  animals  that's  got  hearts  and  feelin's 
and  ain't — folks !  I'm  jes't  as  'bleeged  as  I  kin  be,  honey. 
I've  been  jes'  a-pinin'  fur  a  taste  of  rabbit  fur  the 
longest.  Yes,  indeed.  Pa-ap  '11  not  furgit  this.  Now, 
run  along  home, — skedaddle,  and  tell  your  ma  I'll  be 
there  right  off." 

That  was  a  day  in  the  Newman  family.  From  the 
moment  that  love  and  grief  had  carried  the  day,  Mother 
Newman  had  privately  determined  to  give  Jonah  and 
E.  Mintah  such  a  "  send-off"  as  was  rarely  seen  on  the 
Mountain.     As  a  woman,  she  dearly  loved  a  wedding, 


248  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

even  when  she  had  no  special  or  personal  interest  in  it. 
As  a  mother,  she  had  every  reason  to  concern  herself 
with  this  one.  "  I'm  a-standin'  double  in  this  here  thing, 
father,  and  you're  a-standin'  double,  moreover.  Fur  I'm 
Jonah's  mother,  and  knowed  to  be,  through  showin' 
him  from  three  days  old,  and  him  as  red  a  child  as  I  ever 
see,  or  had,  to  come  out  fair-complected,  and  me  not 
pretendin'  not  to  be  his  mother  even  when  took  up  by 
some  about  measles  and  scch,  through  him  catchin'  of 
'em  not  bein'  liked  by  neighbors  that  their  children  has 
give  everything  to  mine.  And  you're  his  father,  and 
behind  none  in  actin'  up  as  sich,  which  all  wouldn't  of 
walked  their  legs  off  to  keep  a  baby  quiet,  and  taught 
him  to  work  better  than  a  grown  man  when  he  warn't 
hardly  able  to  hold  a  axe  and  spade,  and  him  favorin' 
you  so  you  can't  say  he  ain't  your  son  ef  it  was  in  a  cote 
where  folks  '11  swear  black's  white,  as  I've  often  heerd 
you  say.  And  R.  Mintah's  a  poor,  lost,  and  left  child 
that'll  witness  agin  the  one  that  brought  her  into  this 
world  some  day  and  'lowed  to  be  my  own  by  a  good 
many,  and  me  her  mother,  in  a  manner  of  speakin'. 
And  so  are  you,  leastways,  her  father,  or  standin'  for  a 
father,  which  she  was  'bleeged  to  have  one,  and  has, 
ef  he  ain't  gone  to  a  worse  place,  which,  ef  he  has, 
it  ain't  no  more  'n  what  he  deserves,  though  I  hate 
to  think  of  any  bein'  lost,  even  them  that's  left  their 
child  'round  for  us  to  find  and  bring  up.  Me  standin' 
double,  then,  fur  mothers,  and  you  standin'  double  fur 
fathers,  I  sez  we'll  give  them  two  the  biggest  woddin' 
we  kin  make  out,  and  bless  'em  fur  good,  kind  children 
that's  been  a  blessin'  to  us,  and  send  'em  away  to  their- 
selves." 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  249 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  you  standin'  fur  no  sech  woman 
as  E.  Mintah's "  began  Mr.  Newman. 

"I've  done  been  standin'  fur  her,  now,  fur  nineteen 
years,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  fail  the  child,  no  matter  what 
sort  of  woman  goes  and  calls  herself  a  mother,"  ob- 
jected Mrs.  Newman. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stand  fur  sech  as  him, — that's 
flat.  Ef  he  was  here  this  minnit  I'd  maul  him  like  a 
meal-bag!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Newman,  testily.  "I  ain't 
never  bin  no  sich,  and  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  to  please  no- 
body." 

"  You've  got  to  be.  You've  got  to  give  E.  Mintah  a 
chance.  You've  got  to  be  a  double  father  to  them  two, 
and  you  know  you  ain't  the  man  not  to.  But  it  won't 
be  fur  long,"  persisted  Mrs.  Newman. 

"  Well,  I  won't  say  no  more.  But  you've  missed  the 
pints.  Law  is  law,  and  hit  don't  take  no  'count  of 
double  fathers  and  double  mothers.  No,  indeed.  But 
there's  another  pint.  Oust  they're  wed  they're  one. 
And  them  bein'  one  theirselves  makes  us  single  fathers 
and  mothers,  too,  and  there  needn't  never  be  no  more 
talk  'bout  no  others,"  said  Mr.  Newman,  who  had  kept 
the  legal  mind. 

"Now,  father,  this  I  sez,-  and  sez  agin  to  you,  and 
don't  you  forgit  it.  Ef  anybody — that  Sally  Hearn — 
comes  pryin'  and  pokin'  'round  you  'bout  E.  Mintah, 
don't  you  tell  her  nothing  and  talk  like  she  didn't  belong 
to  nobody,  and  was  jest  a  orpheline,  fur  it  would  be  a 
shame,  and  her  standin'  up  to  git  married  that  minnit, 
poor  thing !" 

"  I  won't,  mother,"  promised  Mr.  Newman.  "  I  won't 
open  my  mind  to  her ;  not  a  crack.     And  you  kin  take 


250  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RJDOE. 

that  five  dollars  Don  Miller  give  me  fur  that  black  and 
white  heifer,  and  spend  every  red  cent  of  it  on  that 
weddin'.  But  we  can't  be  doubles ;  it  ain't  law  nor  it 
ain't  gospel,  neither." 

These  delicate  and  important  "pints"  having  been 
settled,  Mrs.  Newman  gave  herself  up  to  and  fairly  rev- 
elled in  the  preparations  for  the  great  event  that  was 
to  double  nothing  except  Jonah's  joys  and  expenses. 

The  cooking-stove  and  the  beds  came  down,  causing 
as  much  excitement  among  the  children  as  though  the 
roof  had  fallen  in.  A  grand  house-cleaning  set  in,  re- 
vealing the  fact  that  it  had  long  been  hideously  needed. 
Then  such  a  making,  baking,  beating,  such  boiling, 
frying,  roasting,  such  hurrying,  and  scurrying,  and 
worrying  set  in  as  had  never  been  seen  in  that  house, 
or,  rather,  outhouse,  before  (the  stove  had  been  set  up 
there),  and  could- scarcely  be  contained  even  by  "the 
yard,"  as  the  back  premises  were  called.  E.  Mintah 
was  out  of  the  way  of  much  of  it,  being  up-stairs  at 
her  needle-work.  And  Jonah  avoided  it,  saying  he'd 
"as  lieve  be  chased  by  a  mad  bull  'most."  And  his 
father  went  away  for  two  whole  days  and  was  scarcely 
missed.  But  Mrs.  Newman,  broad  and  placid,  directed 
the  whirlwind  and  rode  upon  the  storm.  Jinny  White 
and  relays  of  other  women  were  there,  notably  "  Dar- 
thuly  Meely,"  whose  cakes  were  quite  equal  to  her  com- 
fortables. Even  Matilda  condescended  to  look  in  and 
find  fault  with  what  had  been  done  every  day.  And 
Pap  was  there,  cutting  wood,  drawing  water,  lifting  off 
kettles,  picking  chickens,  "  drawing"  ducks,  whittling 
skewers,  doing  a  thousand  things  with  all  his  own  fatal 
good-nature.     As  for  the  twins,  they  were  everywhere. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  251 

They  were  nearly  wild  with  delight  over  the  situation, 
and  drove  every  one  else  quite  daft  by  their  behavior. 
They  had  Willy  and  a  long  train  of  other  children  at 
their  heels,  and  no  comet  was  ever  followed  by  more 
disastrous  consequences.  Simon  Peter  fished  steadily, 
and  most  successfully,  in  troubled  waters  for  "  goodies" 
of  various  kinds  all  day,  and  had  a  series  of  miraculous 
escapes  from  the  avenging  wrath  of  his  elders.  Stone- 
wall Jackson  tarnished  his  fair  fame  over  and  over  again 
in  the  same  field  of  action  with  no  success  at  all,  and  at- 
tempting to  filch  the  icing  from  the  wedding-cake  after 
dinner  got  his  deserts  in  a  different  shape,  and  was  much 
battered  about  the  head  by  Darthuly  Meely,  no  longer 
pale  and  much  outraged.  Something  was  borrowed 
from  every  neighbor  within  a  radius  of  three  miles. 
More  was  offered  by  every  woman  who  had  a  heart  in 
her  bosom,  the  memory  of  a  wedding  past,  the  hope  of 
a  wedding  to  come.  Friends  of  the  family  were  send- 
ing in  such  dainties  as  they  could  spare  or  make  up  to 
the  last  moment  of  grace, — that  is,  while  "  the  blessin'  " 
was  being  asked.  Distant  acquaintances,  even,  showed 
their  sympathy  and  interest  in  various  ways,  from  volun- 
teering the  loan  of  "  a  real  silver  teaspoon"  to  roasting 
a  sucking-pig,  with  the  traditional  apple  in  his  mouth 
and  his  tail  curled  tight  as  any  sensitive-plant  before 
the  approach  of  the  carver.  Pap  trudged  all  the  way 
to  Winston,  went  around  the  fatal  street  that  contained 
the  irresistible  "  sto'  "  with  the  screen  in  front  of  the 
door,  and  hams  and  vegetables  and  what  not  in  front 
of  it.  He  made  Mrs.  Newman's  purchases  of  pepper- 
mint-candy, oranges,  and  the  like.  He  would  have 
trudged  all  the  way  home  again,  and  Heaven  knows 


252  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

what  he  would  have  done  ^yith  his  parcels,  had  he  not, 
been  offered  "  a  lift,"  which  he  thankfully  accepted, 
lie  rode  home  radiant  with  the  sense  of  the  good  ho 
had  done  and  the  evil  he  had  avoided,  to  find  Mrs. 
Newman  dreadfully  "put  about"  by  the  discovery  that 
there  "  warn't  no  seats,"  and  spend  the  afternoon  bor- 
rowing chairs  in  the  neighborhood,  and  limping  back 
with  them  to  the  house,  now  in  a  gala  state  of  cleanli- 
ness, almost  destitute  of  incommoding  furniture,  and 
adorned  as  it  had  never  been  even  for  a  "buryin',"  with 
green  boughs  put  everywhere,  about  twenty  candles  in 
as  many  bottles,  and  a  white  sheet  gracefully  festooned 
about  the  very  flour-barrel  in  the  corner.  This  done, 
Pap  went  home.  There  he  sat  himself  down  to  rest  a 
bit,  and  eat  something  and  smoke  his  pipe,  after  which 
he  got  out  his  pictures  and  put  them  up,  placing  a  little 
sprig  of  fir  above  the  chromo  in  a  tender  impulse  ihat 
moved  him  to  connect  his  Alice  with  "  little  E.  Mintah's 
weddin'."  He  it  was  who  had  been  decorating  the  New- 
mans' house,  and  his  thoughts  had  been  as  busy  as  his 
fingers  all  day.  His  mind  was  very  full  now  of  a 
puzzling  question.  What  should  he  give  R.  Mintah  ? 
He  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  giving  nothing,  3'et 
he  had  nothing  to  give.  Suddenly  his  eyes  rested  on 
Burygyard,  whisking  about  in  his  cage  high  on  the  wall. 
"Why,  of  course.  There's  Aim/"  he  thought.  "She's 
always  said  he  hadn't  his  match,  and  though  I  hadn't 
never  'lowed  to  part  with  him "  Down  came  Bury- 
gyard at  once,  a  good  deal  frightened  and  flustered, 
and  was  borne  off  to  the  cottage.  Arrived  there,  the 
first  person  that  Pap  came  upon  was  11.  Mintah, — 
R.  Mintah   peeping  in  at  the  door  to  sec  for  herself 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  253 

the  wonderful  and  beautiful  transformation-scene  of 
which  she  had  heard,  and  crying,  "  Oh,  ain't  it  elligint! 
Ain't  it  too  splendid  !  Whur's  Jonah  at?  Has  he  seed 
it?"  She  fled  from  before  Pap's  face  on  being  dis- 
covered. "  Here,  Willy  boy,  you  run  along  with  this 
to  her,"  said  Pap,  putting  the  cage  in  the  child's  hands, 
"  and  tell  her  it's  all  I've  got,  but  give  with  all  my 
heart,  and  welcome." 

Willy  shuffled  off,  and  presently  E.  Mintah,  half-way 
up  the  dark  stairs,  called  out,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Shore !  Thanky, 
thanky.  You  oughtn't  to  a-went  and  give  me  him! 
Sech  a  bird!  Thanky  kindly.  It's  mighty  kind  of  you, 
and  jes'  a  splendid  i)resent!  Don't  you  disappint  to- 
night. D'ye  hear?"  Even  in  her  short  print  gown 
and  curl-papers  E.  Mintah  was  not  the  fright  she  felt 
herself  to  be,  and  need  not  have  scampered  away ;  but 
that  "  Mr.  Shore"  was  as  fine  a  bit  of  feminine  tact  as 
ever  issued  from  high-born  dame  in  brocade.  It  sent 
Pap  home  with  a  shining  face  of  content,  to  spend  an 
hour  in  the  shed-room  in  trying  to  make  a  wedding- 
garment  of  his  one  every-day  and  all-the-year-round 
suit,  which  melted  into  the  red  earth,  the  green  leaves, 
the  brown  dust,  the  yellow  harvest-fields  of  the  moun- 
tain as  perfectly  as  though  nature  had  given  it  to  him 
as  she  does  the  coat  of  the  chameleon  for  a  defence 
against  his  natural  enemies  as  well  as  wind  and 
weather,  but  which  obstinately  refused  to  take  on  that 
spruce  newness  and  slop-shop  splendor  befitting  the  oc- 
casion. "  I'm  cleanin'  myself  fur  the  weddin',"  he  re- 
marked to  Willy,  who  was  looking  on  and  had  heard 
all  that  the  day  had  brought  forth  for  him.  "  I've  had 
Sipertikiler  invite,  and  E.  Mintah  '11  be  expectin'  of  me." 

22 


254  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

He  spoke  with  pride.  Mrs.  Newman  had  indeed  con- 
fessed that  he  had  "  helped  mightily,"  but,  having  a 
good  many  things  on  her  mind,  had  forgotten  to  ask 
him  to  come  back,  although  she  had  counted  on  him 
for  "  the  fiddlin'." 

But  that "  Don't  jom  disappint"  rang  sweetly  in  his 
ears  and  warmed  his  heart. 

"  E.  Mintah  was  tickled  to  death  with  Burygyard. 
I  seed  her  feedin'  him  and  playin'  with  him  up-stairs, 
and  she  said  you  certainly  had  been  kind  to  her  always, 
and  she  hadn't  never  had  nothin'  agin  you.  She  said 
you  was  a  good  man,"  remarked  Willy. 

"  But  I  ain't,  no.  Bless  her  heart !  That's  to  say, 
goodness  is  streaky,  honey.  That  sorter  streak's  al- 
ways been  easy  to  me ;  but  there's  others Well, 

never  mind.  I  aint  good.  Folks  is  got  the  right  of  it, 
there.  But  I  might  have  been  wuss  'n  what  I  am,  I 
reckon.  And  folks  don't  'pear  to  take  no  'count  of  that 
at  all.  Gimmy  that  brush  and  I'll  black  my  shoes.  She 
said  I  warn't  to  fail  to  come,  and  1  want  to  look  right. 
Do  Hook  right,  Willy?" 

When  sundown  came  Mrs.  Newman  mounted  to  the 
room  in  which  E.  Mintah  sat,  and  shut  the  door  after 
her.  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  dress  you  up  fur  this  thing  my- 
self, E.  Mintah,"  she  said,  "  seein'  you're  my  child,  or  as 
good  as  one,  and  better  'n  some.  And  I  ain't  goin'  to 
let  nobody  else  come  nigh  you,  fur  this  here  is  my  place. 
I've  done  got  shut  of  all  of  'em,  and  all's  ready,  and 
waitin',  and  here's  your  Mother  Newman  willin'  to  do 
all  that's  to  be  done  fur  her  daughter  that's  to  be,  and 
has  been,  alwa3^s,  ever  since  she  was  fetched  in  hj  mo 
out  of  the  Eed  Lane  nigh  twenty  years  gone  by.     And 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  255 

you  a  drulin'  with  your  first  tooth  then,  and  a  cooin'  like 
Pete's  pigeon,  as  sweet  a  baby  as  ever  was,  and  no  more 
'feard  of  me  than  ef  you'd  been  then  what  you've  done 
been  ever  sence,  my  own  dear  child.  Is  yer  things  laid 
out  ?  No,  indeed.  The  twins  even  didn't  want  to  have 
nothin'  to  do  with  me  at  fust,  and  'Tildy's  give  me  a 
heap  of  werritting,  and  A.  Mander's  too  free  often  with 
that  tongue  of  hers,  but  you've  never  done  nothin'  nor 
been  nothin'  that's  give  trouble  to  me  and  your  double 
father.  Hit's  mighty  curous.  I  reckon  the  Lord  sont 
peace  and  a  blessin'  along  with  you.  You  and  Jonah's 
been  the  two  that's  give  us  most  back  for  what  we've 
done  fur  you,  and  though  there's  richer  and  edgerca- 
teder,  I  reckon,  I  tells  you  now  that  I  hadn't  my  right 
mind  when  I  give  in  to  and  took  part  with  'Tildy  and 
made  you  onhappy,  and  I  ask  your  pardon  fur  all,  and 
has  meant  to  before  you  married  my  son." 

It  can  be  imagined  with  what  heartiness  this  forgive- 
ness was  accorded;  with  what  meekness  E.  Mintah 
abased  herself  before  "Jonah's  mother,"  and  proclaimed 
herself  utterly  unworthy  of  the  exalted  future  before 
her;  with  what  tears  and  kisses  the  two  women  sealed 
a  new  bond  of  love  and  relationship,  and  then  devoted 
themselves  to  the  function  of  "  dressin'  the  bride  fur 
to  go  to  meet  the  bridegroom." 

At  last  the  hour  came.  All  the  friends  of  the  family 
had  been  assembled  for  two  hours  before  it  came,  down- 
stairs, and  had  been  ranged  in  rows  around  the  walls 
on  the  "cheers"  of  Pap's  borrowing,  some  of  which 
were  recognized  by  the  guests  and  criticised  as  "  this 
blamed  old  thing  of  mine  that  the  back  won't  never 
stay  on  no  way  I  fix  it;"  or  "this  here  three-legged 


256  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

stool  of  your'n  'b  mighty  shaky  and  I  misdoubt  it  holdin' 
a  person  like  me."  Outside  there  was  quite  a  little 
gathering  of  people,  women  chiefly,  who  were  either 
strangers  to  the  family  or  had  been  thought  "too  low- 
down"  to  receive  an  invitation.  They  had  arranged 
themselves  in  small  and  extremely  critical  groups  near 
the  windows,  lounged  on  the  sills  in  comfortable  and 
unabashed  abandon,  and  made  themselves  merry, — far 
more  so,  indeed,  than  the  regularly  invited,  whose  de- 
meanor was  very  much  what  it  would  have  been  if 
they  had  assembled  to  see  Jonah  and  E.  Mintah  buried 
instead  of  married,  and  who  had  the  air  of  waiting 
patiently  to  see  the  two  bodies  brought  in.  The  posi- 
tion of  the  uninvited  was  a  strong  one, — that  of  the 
opposition  always  is, — and  they  showed  themselves  a 
formidable  minority,  or  "  remnant."  They  could  see 
and  hear  everything,  and  felt  themselves  at  liberty  to 
say  w^hatever  they  pleased.  They  pleased  to  make  a 
number  of  very  telling  and  unpleasant  remarks.  The 
manufacture  of  polite  nothings  being  a  conversational 
art  either  not  understood  or  scorned  in  rural  entertain- 
ments, there  was  a  good  background  of  silence  within 
the  room  against  which  such  speeches  as  "  Law  sakes ! 
Ef  there  ain't  Sally  Lewis,  dressed  up  in  her  sister 
Marthy's  things!  And  they're  miles  too  big  fur  her;" 
or  "  Jes'  look  at  Al  Peters  struttin'  'round  like  a  little 
Bantam  rooster  in  that  linen  duster;"  "Don't  it  take 
the  rag  offen  the  bush,  that  dress  of  A.  Mander's  ?" 
together  with  such  exclamations  as  "  Hi,  ain't  we  fine!" 
or  "  My  I  here's  the  whole  family  in  yaller.  Pumpkins 
is  cheap,  I  do  reckon  !"  on  the  part  of  the  Adullamites 
stood  out  in  bold  relief.     The  intimate  knowledge  that 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RTDOE.  257 

the  critics  had  of  the  position,  circumstances,  and 
characters  of  the  company  enabled  them  to  hit  the  bull's- 
eye  every  time,  and  they  scored  so  many  successes  that 
the  least  sensitive  and  conscious  of  the  guests  grew 
wretched  under  the  ordeal,  while  others  grew  red,  and 
retorted  angrily  enough  upon  their  persecutors,  and  still 
others  only  waxed  more  shy  and  silent  every  moment. 
It  was  not  until  Mr.  Newman  rose  in  his  wrath  and  drove 
the  enemy  off  the  place  altogether  that  anything  like 
confidence  was  restored,  or  the  exchange  of  greetings 
and  country  civilities  resumed.  And  even  then  the 
company  was  not  wildly  hilarious  by  any  means.  It  was 
divided  into  little  groups,  by  a  principle  of  natural  rejec- 
tion, rather  than  selection.  In  one  corner  was  a  dozen 
or  more  of  stubby,  knotty  old  men,  a  good  deal  bent  as 
to  their  backs  and  knees,  but  good  for  many  a  day's  hard 
work  yet.  Pap  was  seated  with,  or,  rather,  near,  them. 
Their  talk  was  of  politics  and  local  matters  generally. 
It  was  :  "  Was  you  at  the  cote-house  Saturday  night 
to  hear  Bob  Duffy  speak  ?  You  oughter  bin.  It  was 
elligint,  I  tell  you.  He  kin  holler  louder  'n  any  man  on 
the  stump,  they  do  say.  And  it  ain't  you  nor  me  as  '11 
understand  what  he's  drivin'  at.  ]S'o,  sir.  He's  powerful 
smart  and  deep.''  Or  it  was :  "  There  ain't  a  drop  of 
water  in  Deer  Crik,  skasely.  I  never  knowed  it  to  run 
dry  in  all  my  born  days,"  a  remark  that  brought  out  a 
scornful  "  You  never  knowed !  What  you  ain't  knowed 
comes  to  more  'n  you'll  ever  have  the  head  to  figger  up. 
Deer  Crik's  been  two  two  years  runnin'  twict  sence  I've 
been  a  man,"  from  Daddy  Culbert,  who  was  strong  in 
recollections. 

The  conversation  then  turned  on  cows,  and  Mr.  Al- 
r  22* 


258  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

fred  Laudon  was  complimented  on  this  score  by  Mr. 
Newman  :  "  That  there  cow  of  your'n  is  a  deep  milker, 
Al.  What  breed  is  she,  and  whur  did  you  git  her  at, 
anyways?"  which  begot  a  discussion  about  "breeds" 
that  was  almost  animated  for  a  few  minutes,  after  which 
silence  fell  upon  the  group  again.  Pap  felt  it  to  be  an 
oppressive  silence,  and  began  to  talk  of  trees.  In  the 
course  of  his  remarks  he  asserted  that  "any  tree  kin 
be  grafted  on  another  tree  ef  the  barks  is  alike,"  and 
tried  to  maintain  his  theorj' ;  but  his  statements  were 
all  received  with  incredulity,  solemnity,  and  contempt- 
uous superiority.  Sensitively  alive  to  the  estimation  in 
which  he  was  held  by  them,  this  treatment  only  made 
him  the  more  anxious  to  make  an  agreeable  impression 
upon  them,  and  he  accordingly  related  a  stirring  ex- 
perience of  Western  life  that  had  come  under  his  notice 
in  "  Californy,"  in  which  one  man  had  "  stabbed  another 
to  his  vittals."  Pap  meant  vitals,  but  was  taken  at  his 
word,  and  it  was  made  clear  to  him  that  his  companions 
only  listened  under  protest,  were  not  minded  to  go 
through  the  farce  of  pretending  to  believe  him,  and 
considered  that  he  was  showing  an  offensive  familiarity 
with  social  conditions  that  never  had  and  never  could 
come  in  the  way  of  respectable,  homc-staj'ing  Virgin- 
ians. The  matrons  meanwhile  were  ranged  opposite 
and  discoursed  of  the  proper  way  to  "set  milk,"  the 
dyeing  of  yarns,  and  making  of  quilts,  the  difficulties 
of  rearing  children,  of  managing  perversely-pipped 
chickens,  and  of  other  domestic  matters.  They  also 
gossiped  a  bit  of  the  high  contracting  parties  to  the 
wedding,  Jonah  and  R.  Mintah,  and  of  what  folks  said 
and  what  was  "  true"  and  what  "  warn't  so  at  all."    The 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  259 

maids,  arrayed  in  the  cheajo  glories  of  gay  calicoes  and 
muslins  only,  had  yet  contrived,  with  feminine  art,  to 
look  as  pretty  and  attractive  as  some  of  their  more 
fashionable  sisters,  and  discussed  with  equal  interest 
the  fashions, — the  best  way  to  "  loop  a  polonay"  and  do 
the  hair.  Near  them,  of  course,  grouped  around  the 
door,  where  instant  flight  was  possible  at  any  moment, 
were  the  sturdy,  bronzed  young  farmers,  in  their  Sun- 
day worst,  and  a  state  of  unconquerable,  dreadful  em- 
barrassment. They  were  profoundly  conscious  of  their 
abnormal  splendor,  and  felt  all  elbows  and  knees,  turned 
crimson  when  hailed  by  some  audacious  "  piece"  of  a 
girl,  and  had  a  general  uneasy  sense  that  they  looked 
like  fools,  were  being  ridiculed  in  precisely  the  quarter 
where  they  most  wished  to  be  admired,  and  were  only 
safe  as  long  as  they  took  the  national  motto,  ^^E pluribus 
unum,^'  for  their  own.  A.  Mander  and  Marsh  Culbert 
sat  apart  from  everybody,  holding  each  other's  hands  in 
the  most  obviously  and  obtrusively  sentimental  fashion, 
and  chewing  sweet  gum  as  well  as  the  cud  of  delightful 
anticipation.  A  dank  and  grewsome  female,  panoplied 
in  shining  black  calico,  and  wearing  a  black  sun-bonnet 
which  she  resolutely  refused  to  remove,  had  come  early 
and  settled  herself  in  the  chimney  corner  like  a  huge 
black  spider.  Once  established  there,  she  leaned  for- 
ward, crossed  her  long  black  arms  on  a  lank  black  lap, 
gave  the  company  transient  glimpses  of  a  cadaverous 
countenance  and  glittering  eye,  and  conversed  in  a 
deeply-melancholy  and  carefully-subdued  voice  of  fu- 
nerals, of  "a  noble-lookin'  corpse,"  and  "beautiful 
buryin's"  to  her  next  neighbor.  She  had  got  as  far  as 
the  gallows,  in  a  description  of  the  execution  of  a  noted 


260  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

murderer  which  she  had  attended  with  evident  enjoy- 
ment, when  the  door  opened  and  the  bridal  party  en- 
tered. 


IX. 

Then  was  our  maid  a  wife,  and  hung 
Upon  a  joyful  bridegroom's  bosom." 


Uhland. 


The  dank  and  grewsome  was  a  person  of  importance 
on  the  Mountain.  She  was  a  "  measurer,"  and  perliaps 
was  as  justly  entitled  to  be  lugubrious  in  bearing  and 
apparel  as  undertakers  are  elsewhere.  Not  that  lier 
function  was  that  ghastly  one.  It  was  a  mysterious 
and  solemn  one  enough,  but  it  was  connected  with  the 
living,  not  the  dead.  If  any  child  had  what  was  known 
variously  as  the  '•  ondergrowth"  or  the  "  take-oif," — 
was  puny  and  sickly,  that  is,  and  appeared  to  waste 
away, — ^the  very  first  thing  that  an  anxious  mother  did 
when  her  fears  were  aroused  was  to  send  for  Mrs. 
Uriah  Hopper;  such  was  the  title  of  the  D.  and  G.  And 
Mrs.  Hopper  would  come  (a  black-calico  priestess  of 
Mountain  mysteries),  and  would  be  welcomed  with  the 
respect  due  her  office,  and  be  propitiated  and  consulted 
with  as  much  touching  deference  and  simple  faith  as 
though  she  had  been  a  Delphic  instead  of  a  nineteenth- 
century  oracle.  After  due  consultation  and  delibera- 
tion, she  would  take  the  ailing  child  into  a  dark  room, 
strip  it,  measure  it  from  the  crown  of  its  head  down  to 
the  tip  of  its  big  toe,  rub  it  off  with  oil,  wrap  it  in 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  261 

a  blanket,  and  put  it  to  bed.  She  would  then  take  a 
string,  tie  a  knot  in  it  for  every  month  of  the  child's 
life,  and  show  it  to  the  mother.  She  then  tied  the  strinsr 
to  the  gate-post,  making  a  peculiar  knot  of  her  own. 
If  the  string  wore  away,  the  child  recovered  and  throve 
proportionately.  If  the  string  did  not  wear  out,  the 
child  was  measured  again,  and  this  time  the  string  was 
burnt.  If  that  did  no  good,  and  the  child  died,  it  was 
clear  that  not  even  Mrs.  Hopper  could  save  it.  There 
was  not  a  mother  on  the  Mountain  who  did  not  defer 
to  Mrs.  Hopper  as  she  would  not  have  done  to  any  one 
else  in  the  world,  and  they  talked  of  her  with  bated 
breath  of  how  she  had  "  learnt  how  to  measure  from 
her  aunt  who  knowed;"  of  the  children  she  had  snatched 
from  death  when  they  were  almost  at  their  last  gasp ; 
and  of  the  cases  in  which  "  they  was  too  strong  for  her." 
But  though  they  bowed  the  knee  in  the  house  of  Eim- 
mon,  they  did  not  serve  a  tyrannous  mistress.  Mrs. 
Hopper  was  a  benevolent  edition  of  Witch  Parsons, 
and  was  not  feared.  And  she  exacted  no  payments  for 
her  services,  though  she  was  pleased  to  accept  such 
voluntary  offerings  as  came  to  her. 

This  being  her  position,  it  was  natural  that  she  should 
have  sat  alone  and  apart  from  the  others  even  on  this 
purely  festive  occasion.  A  priestess  cannot  be  genial 
and  make  herself  agreeable  when  it  is  her  mission  to 
be  awful.  The  dank  and  grewsome  was  not  there  for 
laughter  and  small  talk.  When  the  great  moment 
came,  she  fixed  her  glittering  eye  upon  the  principal 
offenders  in  the  bridal  procession,  uncrossed  her  long 
arms,  rose  to  her  feet,  whipped  out  a  black  calico  hand- 
kerchief, and  swayed  backward  and  forward  all  during 


262  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

the  ceremony,  uttering  from  time  to  time  subdued 
groans  of  sympathy  and  interest  in  the  awful  act. 

A  -svild  clatter  of  children's  feet  had  heralded  the 
approach  of  the  party,  and  the  twins,  who  brought  up 
the  rear,  rushed  promptly  to  the  front  and  secured  a 
position  favorable  to  unlimited  goggling, — one  of  them, 
indeed,  being  on  Jonah's  very  feet,  which  were  almost 
big  enough  to  have  accommodated  both.  The  sight  of 
Mrs.  Newman  in  a  bright  green  dress  with  a  well-de- 
fined waist,  and  an  overskirt  and  Jloutices, — Mrs.  New- 
man, who  had  never  been  seen  in  anything  except  drab 
calicoes  of  no  fit  at  all,  and  about  as  much  cut  as  her 
own  stocking-bag, — was  almost  as  impressive  as  that 
of  Mr.  Newman  in  a  new  butternut  suit  of  his  wife's 
making,  and  the  most  fashionable  accessories,  such  as 
a  paper  collar  and  a  cravat.  The  appearance  of  the 
Newman  children — whole,  clean,  quiet,  the  boys  with 
suits  that  were  pocket-editions  of  their  father's,  the 
girls  flounced,  aproned,  be-curled  as  "  no  Newmans"  had 
ever  been  before — could  not  but  strike  the  company  as  a 
miraculous  achievement  without  a  parallel,  until  their 
attention  was  drawn  to  "  Darthuly  Meely,"  whose  hair 
was  exquisitely  arranged  in  seven  distinct  tiers  of  the 
tightest,  reddest  curls  that  ever  depended  from  a  single 
scalp,  or  repaid  the  torture  of  a  week's  papillotes  by 
the  glory  of  one  moment's  dazzling  display;  whose  blue 
gown  was  carefully  cut  to  betra}^  a  bony  neck  of 
a  porcelain  hue  (such  as  city  milk  is  apt  to  take  on) 
finished  off  with  a  string  of  Roman  pearls. 

But  all  these  paled  before  the  splendor  and  glory  of 
the  bride  and  bridegroom.  Jonah  had  apparently  var- 
nished his  head  as  well  as  his  shoes.     His  honest  face 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  263 

not  only  shone  from  recent  and  vigorous  applications  of 
yellow  soap  and  a  crash  towel,  but  radiated  sheepish 
.  delight  and  self-consciousness  from  every  pore.  He  wore 
a  new  black  suit  of  funereal  hue,  with  delicate  sugges- 
tions of  a  more  festive  occasion  in  the  white  cotton 
gloves,  the  yellow  cotton  cravat  with  a  ruby  pin  thrust 
in  it,  the  red  handkerchief  stuck  in  the  most  degage  way 
in  the  world  in  the  breast-pocket.  His  large  red  ears 
stood  out  above  a  high  collar  such  as  Bones,  the  min- 
strel, witches  the  world  with,  as  if  determined  to  hear 
for  themselves  what  was  going  on.  His  shoes  creaked 
out  a  warning  to  him  to  pause  ere  it  was  too  late,  and 
reflect  that  he  was  about  to  take  a  step  that  could  not 
be  retraced,  and  might  be  "putting  his  foot  into  it." 
A  perfect  cloud  of  mingled  musk,  bergamot,  pepper- 
mint, rose  before,  about,  behind  him.  He  was  magnifi- 
cent, irresistible ! 

Little  E.  Mintah  in  her  stiff  skirts  might  almost  have 
been  taken  for  a  reticule  hanging  on  his  arm  at  the 
first  glance,  so  inconspicuous  was  she  comparatively  in 
the  matter  of  inches,  though  with  her  pretty,  delicate 
features,  and  air  of  refinement,  she  was  much  more  like 
a  lovely  wild-flower  about  to  be  nipped  off  by  an  over- 
grown calf.  She  wore  her  red  dress  (the  dress  that  had 
been  given  her  for  the  picnic)  to  please  Jonah.  She 
had  made  certain  modifications  and  alterations  in  it  to 
l^lease  herself.  This  lily  of  the  field  had  toiled,  if  not 
spun,  in  order  to  do  this.  She  had  made  thirty-six  pairs 
of  gloves  the  week  before,  and  forty-six  the  week  before 
that,  for  the  Winston  factories,  and  had  walked  twenty- 
four  miles  to  deliver  them.  With  the  money  she  had 
bought — tell  it  not  to  AYorth,  or  Pingat,  or  Miss  Flora 


264  BEHIND  THE  BLUE   RIDGE. 

McFlimscy — some  yards  of  white  mosquito  netting, 
and  being  a  clever  little  vvomankin  with  her  needle,  she 
had  evolved  a  toilette  that  was  as  becoming  as  though 
it  had  been  composed  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace.  The 
netting  boiled  up  frothily  about  the  bottom  of  the  skirt 
in  an  indescribable  way,  and  was  fastened  around  the 
neck  and  sleeves  and  fell  all  about  her  as  a  wedding- 
veil,  and  made  a  charming  background  for  her  small, 
dark  head  and  sweet  pale  face,  with  the  rapt  eyes, — the 
large,  tender  eyes  that  had  first  attracted  the  royal 
notice  of  the  heir  of  the  house  of  Newman. 

Jonah  on  entering  had  ducked  his  head  at  the  com- 
pany in  his  embarrassment  with  a  circular  motion  in- 
tended to  convey  a  general  salutation, — a  greeting-  to 
which  no  one  responded  except  old  Daddy  Culbert,  who 
belonged  in  his  degree  to  "the  period  of  manners,"  and 
bowed  low  in  his  chair  in  return,  saying,  "How  are  you, 
sir,  and  your  lady  ?  How  do  you  find  yourself?"  but 
was  immediately  hushed  up  and  corrected  by  his  grand- 
son. Seeing  this,  Jonah  fell  back  uj^on  his  collar  and 
ruby  pin,  which  he  "settled"  repeatedly,  his  face  grow- 
ing redder  each  time  as  he  heard  Darthuly  Meely  and 
the  other  maids  tittering  behind  him.  E.  Mintah  just 
clasped  her  hands  over  Jonah's  arm,  and  cast  down  her 
sweet  eyes  and  thought  of  no  one  about  her,  so  full  was 
her  heart  of  an  unsj^eakable  joy  and  rapture  with  which 
none  could  intermeddle;  and  so  they  stood  and  waited. 
The  couple  had  not  been  long  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  although,  petrified  as  they  were  with  fright,  it 
doubtless  seemed  an  age,  when  the  outer  door  opened 
and  "the  preacher"  walked  in,  and  after  depositing  his 
hat  on  a  chair,  placed   himself  in  front  of  them,  and 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  265 

without  any  affectations  or  delays  made  them  man  and 
wife.  This  done,  the  Kev.  John  Mathers  delivered  a 
homely,  earnest  address  that  was  full  of  good  sense  and 
good  feeling,  and  that  lasted  about  ten  minutes,  and  the 
deed  was  done.  He  then  retired  into  the  background, 
where  room  was  respectfully  made  for  him,  and  where 
Mr.  Newman  joined  him.  "  We're  obleeged  to  you,  sir. 
Mightily  obleeged,  all  of  us,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  it's  done 
been  done  all  right, — accordin'  to  law.  You  don't  think 
it  can  be  broke  up,  nor  split  up,  nor  set  aside,  nor  nisi- 
priused,  nor  habeas-corpused,  nor  no  sich,  now,  do  you  ? 
I've  had  a  deal  to  do  with  cotes,  and  I  know  ef  a  thing 
ain't  accordin'  to  law  it  '11  just  pester  the  life  out  of  a 
person.  !N'o  offence  to  you,  sir."  Mr.  Newman  was  not 
unwilling  to  let  it  be  seen  that  he  knew  the  legal  bear- 
ings of  things,  and  was  not  the  man  to  walk  into  the 
snares  and  pitfalls  that  were  set  for  more  ignorant  folk. 

"  They're  married  as  hard  and  sure  and  fast  as  any 
couple  ever  was  in  the  State  of  Virginia,  sir,"  affirmed 
Mr.  Mathers,  not  without  heat,  to  which  Mr.  Newman 
replied  carelessly  as  he  tugged  at  the  hair  in  the  centre 
of  his  favorite  mole  : 

"Well,  I  didn't  know,  you  see.  I  thought  maybe 
they  might  git  mandamused,  or  mittimused,  or  quo  war- 
ranted, without  all  was  done  accordiri'  to  law ;  fur  that 
law's  a  one  fur  gittin'  folks  down  and  werryin'  of  'em 
to  rags,  and  givin'  of  'em  wuss  and  wuss  agin  every 
time  they  opes  their  lips  to  complain,  ef  I  knows  any- 
thing about  it.  En  I  made  up  my  mind  long  ago  that 
I'd  sooner  fight  a  cirkiler  saw,  and  that  ef  I  or  mine 
fooled  with  it  we  might  look  to  end  on  the  gallows,  ef 
we  hadn't  done  no  more  'n  kill  a  cat.  I  knows  the 
M  23 


2G6  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

law.  And  I  didn't  want  them  two  that  don't  know  it 
like  me — and  there's  few  that  does,  or  has  had  reason 
to — to  git  into  no  trouble.  No  offence  to  you,  sir,  at  all." 
E.  Mintah,  meanwhile,  was  receiving  the  congratu- 
lations of  her  friends,  after  a  tremendous  amount  of 
"  saluting  the  bride"  had  been  done,  in  which  Jonah  led 
the  way  with  a  resounding  kiss  that  went  off  like  a 
pocket-pistol,  and  brought  a  rush  of  color  to  R.  Min- 
tah's  cheeks  and  caused  her  to  stoop  forward  in  confu- 
sion, the  better  to  wipe  her  lips  with  a  handkerchief 
which  was  sewed  to  her  side  to  prevent  its  being  lost, — 
a  very  grand  hemstitched  handkerchief  given  her  to  use 
on  the  great  occasion  by  Jinny  White.  The  compli- 
ments and  good  wishes  of  the  friends  Avho  now  pressed 
forward  were  expressed  in  very  different  ways.  AVith 
the  dank  and  grewsome  they  took  the  shape  of  a  polite 
assurance  that  she  "hadn't  never  see  two  that  bore  up 
better  in  the  hour  of  trial;"  with  Jinny  White  some 
praise  of  the  wedding-dress  "  as  mighty  tasty,"  and  a 
plaintive  appeal  to  E.  Mintah  to  take  care  of  it,  as  she 
"  might  come  to  need  it  to  be  buried  in."  With  Alfred 
it  was:  "  Well,  E.  Mintah,  joxx  two's  done  hitched  up 
together.  You  can't  help  nothin'  now.  Weddin's  like 
dyiu' :  you  feels  that  all's  too  late.  You  can't  help 
nothin'.  And  folks  doin'  it  ev'y  day  with  no  more  notion 
of  it. — Oh,  hit's  turrible!  Jes'  turrible!  Turrible!" 
Here  Matilda  gave  him  a  scowl  and  a  nudge  that  ho 
was  far  from  expecting,  he  being  under  the  impression 
that  she  was  in  the  next  room.  She  also  called  him  an 
"ijit,"  and  he  hastily  added,  with  a  complete  change  of 
tone,  "  But  you'll  like  it,  in  course,  E.  ^^intah ;  in  course  I 
Certainly  1     Hit's  fine  I"     With  this  he  swelled  out  his 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  267 

cheeks  to  their  utmost  capacity,  smote  upon  them  with 
more  than  ordinary  force,  and  fell  into  an  uncommonly 
prolonged  and  acute  attack  of  chuckles,  in  which  he 
laughed  and  gasped  and  gurgled  all  at  once  in  a  really 
alarming  way,  suggestive  of  hysteria,  and  almost  call- 
ing for  burnt  feathers,  or  sal  volatile.  An  angry  "  Be 
quiet.  Quit  your  foolishness,  simpleton,"  from  Matilda, 
failed  to  take  effect  for  some  time,  and  so  far  from  grow- 
ing quiet  he  wandered  about  the  house  for  the  remainder 
of  the  evening,  and  even  drifted  outside,  and  sat  aim- 
lessly on  the  fence  for  quite  an  hour,  not  twenty  yards 
away  from  the  spot  where  the  Newman  turkeys  were 
roosting, — happy  birds  ! — with  no  thought  of  the  hot 
water,  roastings,  bastings,  in  store  for  them. 

Pap  had  been  sitting  silent  and  mortified  ever  since 
his  rebuff  from  the  elders,  who  had  let  him  severely 
alone,  except  when  they  looked  at  him  over  or  under 
their  horn  spectacles  with  a  glance  indifferent,  vacant, 
cold,  or  a  "  What  kind  of  a  sort  of  a  fellow  is  this  we've 
got  here?"  of  puzzled  inquiry  from  some  "furriner," 
who  lived  some  miles  away,  and  only  half  divined  that 
he  was  "  no  'count"  and  had  best  be  left  to  his  own  com- 
pany and  devices.  He  felt  shy  about  going  up  to  E. 
Mintah.  To  cross  the  room  and  set  himself  up  to  be 
stared  at,  as  it  were,  seemed  impossible.  Such  bold 
proceedings  were  not  for  Pariahs,  he  felt;  so  he  sat 
still,  with  Willy  leaning  against  him  and  trying  already 
to  wink  the  sleep  out  of  his  round  eyes,  and  with  other 
companions,  in  the  shape  of  his  own  thoughts,  that  he 
would  have  gladly  shaken  off,  they  were  so  bad.  Only 
yesterday,  as  it  seemed,  he  had  been  a  bridegroom,  too, 
and  had  stood  in  just  such  an  assembly,  feeling  im- 


268  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

mortal  in  youth  and  love  and  joy.  And  ho  remem- 
bered another  bride,  the  best  and  fairest  among  women. 
"  Then"  and  "  now,"  the  twin  vultures,  were  tearinir 
at  his  heart, — that  bright  "then"  when  he  had  been 
so  rich  that  all  the  tribute  and  treasures  of  the  world 
could  have  added  nothing  to  his  wealth ;  this  dark 
"  now"  of  bankruptcy  in  which  there  were  none  so  poor 
as  to  do  him  reverence,  and  in  which  only  one  thing — 
the  little  child  that  his  arm  encircled — stood  between 
him  and  the  utter  darkness  and  despair  of  unloved,  un- 
honored  old  age.  His  eyes,  in  roaming  around  the 
room,  fell  upon  his  violin,  wrapped  in  the  dead  wife's 
shawl.  The  poor,  faded,  threadbare  thing  was  as  famil- 
iar to  him  as  any  sight  in  the  world  ;  but  he  got  a  heart- 
stab  from  it  now,  it  was  eloquent  of  so  much  besides 
his  lost  happiness.  He  withdrew  his  arm  hastily  from 
about  Willy,  and,  leaning  forward,  rested  his  head  on 
his  hands  with  his  fingers  shielding  his  eyes. 

"Old  Johnny's  gittin'  tired.  Look  yonder  at  him 
a-noddin'  and  ready  to  fall  off  the  bench.  Ha!  ha! 
He's  had  enough  of  this,"  said  one  of  the  youthful  rus- 
tics to  Darthuly  Meely,  who  "He!  he!  he'd"  with  a 
sjnnpathetic  snigger  over  the  amusing  spectacle. 

"He's  done  bin  to  town  to-day,  ma^'be,"  remarked 
rustic  the  second,  not  to  be  outdone  in  wit.  "  'Tain't 
the  first  time  he's  crookt  his  elbow  sence  daybreak. 
That's  why  he's  so  peart  and  lively  to-night.  I  reckon 
he'll  roll  plum'  off  on  the  floor  in  a  minnit." 

R.  Mintah  noticed  him,  too,  and  came  tripping  towards 
him,  saying,  "  Pa-ap  !  Pa-ap  !  Ain't  you  got  no  words 
fur  me?  Ain't  you  goin'  to  shake  hands  and  wish  me 
joyful?" 


nr.iiiNi)  Tin:  i:/,i'i':  inixn-:.  201) 

Pftp  Htail<'l  ii|.  ;iri<l  l«»ok(5(i  bowi)d(3r(3(J.  "  Jl.  Mintah, 
my  (J(!ttrl  Im  Mml.  you?  (iod  \,\{',m  you!"  ho  Maid, 
l>rolc«!uly,  firi/|  l.licn  N^louMod  Iki-  Imud  hud(J(!nly,  H(?iii(5(i 
lii)i  <iiii(|,  iiii'l  mu<l()  hJK  way  rapicJIy  (uit  (d'a  nido  (lo(jf 
into  Mi<;  diuluHJMH.  llu  waM  Htill  Milting  on  tlio  door 
Hf.(5p  wIk  II  oik;  of  tlio  ruHtio  youUiH  alnmdy  montiorujd 
(•;im«!  ill  H(5ar(di  oC  lylm,  Muyir)«^,  "  'I^Kjy'nj  inindc.d  to  luivu 
a    »rjori*y-})(JUt    iti    tlion?,   imd    Im    a'slcin'    I'm-    l.lin    nd(ll(;r. 

TImt'Hyou,  ain't  it?" 

"No,  It  ain't,"  Haid  I'ap.  "1  can't  play  tfMii^^ht.  1 
ain't  a^^oin'  to  play."  llo  wan  very  Mor(5lioart<5rJ,  arid 
Mi<:  iriiiiiiH  r  <>r  Mi<;  n»qu(5Ht  lijid  not,  boon  Hoothln^.  Ji. 
Mintah  oanio  v\\\\u\u^_  to  him,  tliou/^h,  tho  rujxt  niinulc, 
Hayinji^,  "  Wliat'n  tliiw?  VVhat'n  tliin  'hfiut  you  not 
playin'  fur  my  woddin'?  Oh,  Pa-apl  Vou  ain't  novor 
meant  it.  .Ir»nah'H  and  mo'n  w(5ddin'f  llit'M  novor  ain't 
poHHihhj!  VVIiy,  it*M  you  tliat  han  hriJii^^lit  um  to  tliin. 
Vi^  you  hadn'l,  olliolpcji  mc-  and  tall(<3d  to  Mm  lii(<-  you 
did  wo  wouldn't  havo  liad  no  w^^ddin',  tind  I'd  Imvo  goiiu 
i*in/<lo  to  my  ^ravo.  Not  play?  And  hi  in  No(d»  a  hoau- 
tifid  danctjfl  And  mc  ready  to  juinjj  (ivor  tluj  houHol 
And  y(ju  playiri'  no  eli^unt!  (Jonio  'long  in  thin  minnit, 
whioh  you'vo  alwayM  boon  a  good  friond  to  mo,— alwayw." 

Of  oouiMo  I'ap  nd«;nt(!d.  'I'Ikjhj  fmver  wan  a  enjaturo 
mofo  HUHO<5ptihl<5  Ui  Kindne.H.H;  ami  for  altbotion,  or  alfoo- 
tion'H  »ako,  wdiat  would  I.e.  noi,  iiav©  dono  or  boon? 
"  Woll,  II.  Mintah,  to  plcanui';  you,  I  can't  nay  you 
nay,  Hooin'  it'n  yduv  weddin'  night,— mo  that  iiavo 
knowod  you  Honoo  you  warri't  aH  big  aM  my  Willy." 

Ah  h<5  (jutoHid  with  hor,  a  g(!nora!  inurmur  of  Natln- 
faction  nilcd  tho  room,  (uitiroly  mcUj  di  in  itM  origin,  hut 
hcJj»iii(r   tf)   put   tim   <dd    injin    in    tiiiio.      "  NoW  Wo'll   yni 

2a -^ 


270  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

sometbin'  that's  wuth  the  listenin',''  said  old  Jacob  Pot- 
ter to  bis  neigbbor,  Tim  Wbite,  "I  always  did  like  a 
tune,  aud  Jobnny  Shore  kin  play  the  fiddle  first-rate. 
Hit's  about  the  only  thing  he's  good  fur." 

"I  never  cared  fur  no  noises  myself,"  said  Tim,  and 
ran  bis  band  through  his  hair  several  times,  as  be  bad 
a  way  of  doing. 

"  Well,  tunes  is  like  roads ;  when  I  kin  git  a  tune  of 
the  right  sort  that  I  kin  git  a  holt  on,  and  travel  straight 
on  with  slow  and  sure  without  its  forkin'  off  every 
minnit  a  fresh  way,  and  yet  that's  got  pretty  turnin's 
onst  in  a  while  to  it,  I  will  say  it's  pleasant, — that's  to 
say,  when  you  know  the  turnin's  and  are  fixed  fur  to 
take  'em  right,"  said  Mr.  Potter,  as  if  apologizing  for  a 
weakness. 

"  I  like  the  jews-harp,  myself,  'bout  as  well  as  any- 
thing," said  Jim  Wilkins's  father.  "  My  son  usened  to 
bit  a  sight  of  lively  jigs  out  of  bis'n,  poor  fellow!" 

"  Old  Hunderd  is  what  I  call  a  tune,"  said  Daddy 
Culbert.  "  There's  a  heap  in  Old  Hunderd,  and  there 
ain't  no  hurry  'bout  it.  You  kin  bold  on  to  it  as  long 
as  you  like,  and  you  always  knows  whur  you've  done 
got  to,  and  what's  comin'  next.  My  father  could  er 
been  heard  a  mile,  1  do  reckon,  when  he  put  hisself  on 
it.  But  save  me  from  them  slippery,  skippery  things 
that  folks  calls  tunes  nowadays,  that's  in  one  ear  and 
out  the  other  befo'  you  knows  what's  the  matter,  and 
has  runned  off  and  is  'way  yonder  out  of  sight  before 
you've  well  got  the  taste  of  the  cheese  in  your  mouth, 
— maggoty  things,  always  on  the  move." 

"  Yes,  sir;  you're  right  there.  I  says  so,  too,"  agreed 
Mr.  Wilkins,  gravely,  aud  Mr.  Potter  nodded  sagely. 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  271 

"  And  as  for  me,  I  likes  '  Hail  Columbia,'  when  pinted 
out,  better  'n  any  of  'em.  There's  a  power  of  music  in 
'  Hail  Columbia.'  I  can't  rightly  say  as  I  knows  it  from 
other  tunes, — there's  such  a  many  of  'm  I  can't  be  wer- 
rited  with  'em, — but  when  pinted  out  I  always  says, 
'  There's  a  power  of  music  in  that  there  hime,' "  said 
another  of  the  group,  the  grandfather  of  innumerable 
Browns. 

"It  takes  a  deal  of  hearkenin',"  said  Mr.  Wilkins, 
looking  towards  Pap,  who  was  screwing  up  his  pegs 
very  carefully  and  tum-tumming  at  the  strings  to  see 
that  they  were  in  proper  accord.  "  I  wouldn't  of  thought 
it." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Hit  ain't  so  easy,  fiddlin'.  Hit  beats  most. 
There's  worse  done,"  remarked  Mr.  Potter. 

Pap  heard  this,  and  brightened  under  it,  and  felt 
himself  included  with  music  and  all  musicians  in  a 
kind  of  general  amnesty. 

"  Why,  yes,  there  is,"  admitted  Mr.  Peters,  senior. 
"  I  don't  kyur  ef  a  fiddle's  'round  myself  at  Christmas 
and  ingatherin's  and  weddin's  and  sich.  There  ain't  no 
great  harm  as  I  kin  see  in  fiddles,  'ceptin  fur  fiddlers, 
who  are  mostly  no  'count.  And  there's  no-'counts  that 
ain't  fiddlers."  Such  a  concession  was  a  thing  that 
could  never  have  been  expected  from  Mr.  Peters,  who 
was  granitic  in  formation  and  of  the  Silurian  period  in 
point  of  prejudices.  Pap  heard  and  smiled,  and  tucked 
his  beloved  violin  under  his  chin  where  he  stood,  and 
gave  a  long  scrape  from  tip  to  end  of  bow  and  looked 
about  him  with  positive  assurance. 

"  Eun,  git  me  a  stool,  AYilly  boy,  to  rest  Jim  Wilkins 
on,"  he  said,  to  his  little  shadow ;  and,  going  across  the 


272  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

room,  be  turned  an  empty  water-bucket  upside-down  in 
tbe  low  window-seat,  and  baving  entbroned  himself, 
with  Willy's  belp,  gave  a  second  scrape  of  bis  bow  to 
say  tbat  be  was  ready.  Willy  bopped  off  witb  bis 
crutcb,  and  it  was  lucky  that  both  were  got  out  of  the 
way  in  time,  for  tbe  effect  of  Pap's  signal  was  almost 
electrical,  and  in  a  moment  the  bashful  youths,  who 
bad  been  clinging  together  all  evening  so  desperately, 
parted  company  by  one  impulse,  and,  as  bold  as  lions, 
advanced,  seized  a  maiden  apiece  by  her  elbow  or  hand, 
and  marched  with  her  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Gone  was  all  stiffness  and  embarrassment  from  that 
moment.  A  babel  of  talk  burst  forth.  Podge  Brown, 
who  bad  been  tbe  envy  of  bis  own  sex  and  tbe  delight, 
apparently,  of  tbe  opposite  one,  was  suddenly  com- 
pletely eclipsed  and  altogether  deserted.  Podge  could 
not  dance. 

Kot  being  afflicted  with  the  faintest  trace  of  shyness, 
he  had  been  talking  to  the  girls  all  evening  and  making 
himself  irresistible  in  bis  own  fascinating  way,  showing 
bis  easy  feeling  about  society  and  familiarity  with  its 
usages  in  a  variety  of  ways.  He  had  begun  by  seating 
himself  on  the  same  bench  with  tbe  maidens, — between 
A.  Mander  and  Darthuly  Meely  indeed, — and  had  bril- 
liantly excused  the  boldness  of  the  intrusion  by  saying 
tbat  "  merlasses  must  look  to  catch  flies."  He  bad  con- 
tinued to  get  off  a  great  number  of  equally  original  and 
lively  sallies,  to  tbe  great  amusement  and  satisfaction  of 
bis  audience,  and  the  disgust  of  his  companions  near  tbe 
door.  He  went  so  far  as  to  make  a  mock  declaration 
of  affection,  which  be  called  "a  pop,"  to  two  young 
ladies  seated  some  distance  below  him.     He  ended  by 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  273 

tickling  them  all,  which  threw  them  into  the  greatest 
possible  state  of  arch  confusion,  and  produced  such 
protestations,  affectations,  profuse  giggles,  and  threats 
that,  naturally,  he  was  driven  in  self-defence  to  make 
fresh  demonstrations,  whereupon  all  the  timid  darlings 
took  refuge  in  each  other's  laps,  where  they  embraced 
and  kissed  each  other  most  fondly,  and  quite  by  acci- 
dent looked  over  at  the  now  furious  masculine  majority 
who  suffered  and  were  strong.  But  with  the  very  first 
bars  of  "  Zip  Coon"  the  conquering  Brown  found  him- 
self no  better  off  than  ]N"apoleon  at  Elba,  and  in  a  flash 
about  twenty  couples  were  hard  at  it,  jigging,  and  hop- 
ping, and  spinning,  and  twirling,  and  not  caring  a  pin 
what  became  of  him.  Away  they  went,  in  pairs,  and 
faced  each  other,  and  set  to,  and  capered,  and  bounded, 
swung  half  around  a  circle,  fell  to  their  "  steps,"  swung 
back  into  place  again,  seized  each  other  around  the 
waist  and  spun  madly  around  for  a  moment,  faced  each 
other  again,  set  to,  and  so  on  da  capo  with  fresh  energy 
and  other  "  steps"  until  not  a  breath  was  left  in  a  single 
body.  Such  coquetting  and  pirouetting,  such  bright 
eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  such  freedom  of  movement 
and  native  grace  among  the  girls!  Such  swing  and 
fling,  such  rampings  and  stampings,  such  shouts  of 
delight  from  the  men !  Such  perfect,  unrestrained  en- 
joyment for  all!  "Zip  Coon"  melted  into  "Miss  Mc- 
Leod,"  "  Hiss  McLeod"  was  merged  in  "  Money  Musk," 
"  Money  Musk"  slipped  into  "  Gray  Eagle,"  "  Gray 
Eagle"  ran  into  "Yellow  Stockings,"  "Yellow  Stock- 
ings" was  skilfully  pinned  without  a  break  to  "  Fisher's 
Hornpipe." 

On  they  all  went,  Pap  playing  with  a  fire  and  enthu- 


274  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

siasm  that  worked  the  dancers  up  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  excitement,  playing  as  if  there  wasn't  a  heartache  in 
the  world  and  never  had  been,  his  eyes  half  shut,  a 
smile  on  his  face,  beating  time  regularly"  with  his  left 
foot,  the  dancers  dancing  to  match  with  all  their  might 
and  main,  and  heart  and  soul,  and  with  every  muscle 
of  their  bodies.  The  old  floor  sent  up  clouds  of  dust. 
The  walls  trembled  and  swayed.  The  windows  rattled. 
The  candle-sticks  clattered.  The  broom  fell  in  a  fright 
against  the  disguised  flour-barrel.  The  twins  shrieked 
for  joy,  and  danced,  too,  about  the  door  after  their 
own  fashion.  The  elders  leaned  eagerly  forward,  and 
beamed,  and  oscillated  on  their  seats,  and  nodded  to 
the  music,  and  exclaimed,  and  patted  the  floor  with 
their  sticks.  And  still  the  reels  and  reelers  went  thun- 
dering on.  Pap  grew  paler  and  paler,  the  dancers  were 
all  aflame,  but  still  there  was  no  pause  nor  break.  And 
now  came  a  loud  roar  and  a  mighty  tramp.  It  was  a 
mercy^  that  the  shell  of  a  tenement  did  not  collapse  like 
a  card-house  as  all  the  couples  bounded  off  in  the 
"  grand  cirkit"  all  around  the  room,  doing  the  long 
glide  and  hop  of  "  the  Irish  trot,"  which,  being  well 
named  for  wildness  and  fury,  would  have  been  trj^ing 
to  the  constitution  of  the  most  substantial  structure. 
Utterly  exhausted  when  this  highly  characteristic  out- 
burst of  Milesian  mirth  was  over,  the  dancers  fell  into 
the  first  seats  they  could  find.  The  first  frenzy  of  move- 
ment was  over,  and  Pap  could  and  did  stop,  too,  and 
proceeded  to  mop  his  face  with  his  handkerchief,  which 
he  then  rolled  into  a  tight  ball  and  returned  to  hia 
pocket.  Nobod}^  thanked  him,  nobody  joined  him,  ex- 
cept Willy,  whom  he  sent  off  again  to  bring  him  "a 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  275 

gode  of  water,"  but  nevertheless  he  felt  that  he  had 
his  reward.  "  The  folks  is  had  a  good  fling,  ain't  they, 
honey  ?"  he  said  to  the  child  when  he  returned.  "  It 
was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  Jim  Wilkins  here 
from  jinin'  in.  He  pooty  nigh  stepped  off  when  it 
come  to  '  Yellow  Stockings,'  he  did.  It  was  always  a 
favbright  of  his'n.  Many's  the  time  I've  played  it  fur 
him  when  my  fingers  was  so  stiff  with  the  cold  I  couldn't 
hardly  hold  my  bow.  Poor  Jim !  I  wish  he'd  of  been 
here  to-night.  He  would  of  enjoyed  hisself,  and  pleas- 
ured others  too.  He  was  a  one  fur  weddin's.  He  was 
always  jokin'  about  sich  things.  I  remember  him  sayin' 
when  he  come  back  from  bein'  took  prisoner  that  when 
he  seed  the  street-cars  in  Baltimore, — sorter  carts  they 
is,  honey,  thut  runs  constant  on  rails  to  carry  folks  about 
their  business, — he  said  they  remembered  him  of  the 
married  state.  All  the  folks  that  was  in  was  always 
wantin'  to  git  out;  and  all  the  folks  that  was  out 
■peared  like  they  couldn't  be  satisfied  without  they  got 
in.  He  was  that  way.  He  was  a  joker;  but  he  looked 
behind  things,  too,  so  to  speak."  Some  little  time  passed 
before  any  more  dancing  was  done,  and  then  a  sensation 
was  created  by  Jonah's  challenging  Alf  Peters  to  "  a 
break-down."  Jonah  was  considered  by  many  people 
the  "  handsomest  dancer  on  the  Mountain."  Alf  Peters 
had  won  "  the  endurance  prize"  for  break-downs  the 
week  before  at  the  fair.  Great  interest  was  naturally 
felt  in  such  a  contest.  Both  men  began  by  removing 
their  coats,  and  after  a  few  preliminary  stamps  and 
steps  each  threw  back  his  head,  shoulders,  and  arms, 
and  settled  to  his  shuffling  and  double-shuffling  with  a 
will,  "  the  folks"  gathering  about  them  in  a  circle,  Tim 


276  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

White  "patting  Juber,"  Pap  fiddling  for  his  life,  and  R. 
Mintah  shrieking  out  in  her  feminine  treble  squeak, 
"  Don't  3'ou  stop,  Jonah  !  Go  on  !  Don't  git  beat,  Jonah  ! 
That's  you!"  the  opposition  petticoated  element  en- 
couraging Alf  in  much  the  same  fashion.  A  more  ex- 
citing struggle  for  supremacy  was  never  seen  on  the 
Mountain,  and  how  R.  Mintah's  eyes  did  shine  with 
gratified  pride  when  Alf  Peters,  pumped  into  an  ex- 
hausted air-receiver,  suddenly  stopped,  sank  on  the 
floor,  and  thereby  confessed  himself  vanquished.  "  He's 
give  in !  I  knowed  it  would  be  so  !  Stop,  Jonah,"  she 
cried.  But  Jonah  went  on  for  some  moments  to  show 
that  he  could  do  so,  not  that  there  was  the  least  danger 
of  any  dispute  or  altercation,  everybody  having  seen 
for  some  moments  that  Alf  had  lost  his  steadiness  and 
was  reeling  as  a  top  does  before  it  comes  to  a  stand-still. 
When  Alf  rose  and  sulkily  resumed  his  linen  "  duster," 
with  ill-concealed  disgust,  Jonah  cocked  his  hat  very 
much  on  the  back  of  his  head,  stuck  his  thumbs  in  his 
suspenders,  and  made  the  tour  of  the  room  with  R. 
Mintah  hanging  on  his  arm  and  looking  up  to  him  with 
fondest  admiration.  He  then  lit  a  five-cent  cigar,  and, 
in  the  fulness  of  his  satisfaction,  he  actually  went  up 
to  his  late  deadly  enemy,  young  Culbert,  and  offered 
him  one,  adding  a  hearty  clap  on  his  back  that  was 
almost  enough  to  produce  a  hemorrhage,  on  the  spot. 
*' Ain't  you  'most  dead,  my  dear?"  asked  R.  Mintah  of 
her  giant,  anxiously. 

"iVb,"  he  replied,  with  great  scorn.  "  I  ain't  teched. 
Git  out  there  and  show  me  what  you  kin  do." 

Out  they  got  on  the  floor.  Jonah  stuck  his  arms 
akimbo.     Pap,  who  had  exhausted  his  repertoire,  went 


BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  277 

back  to  "  Zip  Coon."  E.  Mintah  caught  up  her  skirts, 
turned  out  her  elbows  squarely,  stuck  her  pretty  head 
roguishly  on  one  side.  Jonah,  with  a  wild  '•  Whoop-ee  !" 
jumped  fully  two  feet  into  the  air,  clapped  his  heels 
swiftly  three  times  together  before  he  alighted,  whirled 
to  the  right,  whirled  to  the  left,  advanced,  retreated, 
gyrated. 

R.  Mintah  teetered  forward  prettily  on  her  toes,  flew 
right,  flew  left,  with  a  little  fluttering  motion' like  that 
of  a  butterfly  with  wings  outspread,  retreated  Avhen 
he  advanced,  advanced  when  he  retreated,  glanced 
archly  now  over  the  right  shoulder,  now  over  the  left, 
her  cheeks  like  damask  roses,  her  eyes  like  stars. 

Jonah  darted  towards  her  with  his  arms  extended ; 
R.  Mintah  slipped  under  them  and  floated  away.  Jonah 
danced  all  around  her;  E.  Mintah  kept  well  out  of  his 
reach.  Jonah  pretended  that  he  was  exhausted,  and 
let  his  steps  die  away  to  a  faint  shuffle,  intended  to 
convey  the  impression  that  he  was  quite  spent;  E. 
Mintah  relaxed  her  vigilance.  Jonah  immediately 
darted  forward  again,  and  this  time  seized  the  little 
wife  around  the  waist,  and,  lifting  her  up  in  his  strong 
arms,  deposited  her  bodily  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  left 
her  there, — a  sweet  novelty  in  chimney  ornaments. 
The  shouts  of  the  delighted  audience  had  not  died  away, 
when  Mr.  E'ewman  appeared  at  the  door,  very  tall  and 
straight,  very  solemn  and  formal.  "  Suppur-r,  ladies 
and  gentlemen .'"  he  said  in  loud,  mechanical  voice,  with 
a  whirr  in  it  as  of  a  clock  running  down.  '•  Suppur-r-rl 
And  please  to  form  youi'selves  in  couples  of  two  and 
walk  out." 

This  was  a  welcome  sound  to  Pap,  whose  head  had 

24 


278  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDOE. 

dropped  lower  and  lower  over  his  violin,  and  who  had 
been  playing  for  some  time  with  intermittent  vigor. 
And  to  the  elders,  all  of  whom  were  drooping,  too,  and 
some  of  them  dozing.  And  to  Podge  Brown,  who  had 
been  threatening  to  go  home  for  hours,  but  somehow 
had  not  gone.  And  to  Matilda,  who  had  sat  bolt  up- 
right all  the  evening,  looking  almost  as  sour  and  odious 
as  she  was.  And  to  "Willy,  who  had  rolled  off  and  under 
a  bench,  and  was  "sound,"  as  Pap  remarked  when  he 
waked  him.  And  to  Stone  and  Pete,  who  had  not  been 
able  to  close  an  ej-e  for  thinking  of  it.  And  to  the 
dank  and  grewsome,  who  rose  with  alacrity  to  respond 
to  the  summons,  but,  with  all  the  others,  was  stopped 
by  Mr.  Newman,  who  gave  out :  "  The  bride  and  the 
bridegroom  will  form  theirselves  as  the  fust  pair  of  two, 
and  lead  forth  before  all,  which  will  follow  on."  This 
plan  of  Mr.  Newman's  for  ensuring  due  and  proper 
precedence  necessitated  R.  Mintah's  being  taken  down 
from  her  exalted  position,  and  Jonah  effected  this  in  a 
twinkling,  whereupon  E.  Mintah,  by  dint  of  standing 
on  tiptoe,  managed  to  administer  a  mock-violent  box  on 
his  ear.  Peace  being  restored  between  them,  both  sud- 
denly became  very  dignified  and  grave.  R.  Mintah  put 
on  her  white  cotton  gloves,  which  she  had  taken  off. 
Jonah  did  the  same,  and  pulled  up  his  collar,  moreover, 
and  held  his  head  as  high  as  he  could  get  it.  R.  Mintah 
took  his  arm,  and,  having  "formed  theirselves,"  ihay 
waited  a  moment  for  the  other  "  couples  of  two"  to  do 
the  same,  and  then  marched  out  of  the  room,  solemnly, 
with  measured  steps,  at  the  slowest  possible  rate  of 
speed  consistent  with  moving  at  all,  to  "Bonaparte 
crossing  the  Rhine,"  from  Pap.      To  have  laughed  or 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  279 

talked  during  this  progress  would  have  been  a  gross 
indecorum.  But  when  they  had  arrived  at  the  supper 
table  and  taken  their  places,  when  Mr.  Mathers  had 
asked  a  blessin'  at  great  length,  and  been  blessed  for  not 
making  it  shorter,  and  when  Mr.  Newman  had  called 
out  warningly,  "  Ladies  to  get  their  fill  fust^  gentleme/i, 
and  don't  you  disremember  it.  Guzzlers  to  wait  till  the 
last.  Begin  to  commence  to  wait  on  your  ladies,  gentle- 
mew,  and  don't  spare  the  vittles  pervided  and  made  and 
set  out  before  you  for  the  same," — then,  I  say,  there 
was  noise  enough.  A  vague  reminiscence  of  various 
legal  documents  had  been  floating  through  Mr.  New- 
man's mind  all  evening,  and  an  anxiety  that  every- 
thing should  be  done  according  to  the  law  written  in 
his  own  mind  for  such  occasions.  And  Mother  New- 
man, who  had  been  beaming  promiscuously  and  most 
contentedly  upon  everybody  all  evening,  felt  that  she 
had  never  seen  him  appear  to  such  advantage,  and  re- 
joiced to  see  him  "  actin'  the  double  father"  to  perfec- 
tion. A  bountiful  supper,  that,  and  certainly  a  merry 
company.  Podge  Brown  was  again  in  a  position  to 
show  the  superiority  of  head  over  heels,  and  became 
every  moment  more  fatally  fascinating.  Before  Mr. 
Mathers  had  well  got  out  his  "  Amen,"  he  was  sportively 
pouring  cofi'ee  in  the  custard,  and  daubing  the  pound- 
cake with  mustard,  by  way  of  showing  the  tricksy 
quality  of  his  wit,  and  from  this  he  went  on  to  other 
delightful  and  genial  antics  that  completely  enslaved  all 
the  young  ladies  about  him,  whom  he  tickled  impar- 
tially and  persistently,  causing  them  to  "  think  they'd 
die,"  and  to  assure  him  that  they  "  would  split  their 
sides,"  to  say  nothing  of  spilling  their  coffee,  dropping 


280  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

their  plates,  and  choking  over  and  over  again.  But 
although  thus  devoted  to  the  sex  at  large,  ^[r.  Brown 
was  a  man,  and  an  unmarried  one,  and  so  it  came  about 
that  be  gradually  and  very  artfuU}''  narrowed  the  circle 
of  his  charming  attentions  until  Darthuly  Meely  w^as 
the  object  of  most  of  them,  and  before  the  banquet  was 
consumed  he  had  contrived  to  give  her  the  most  signal 
marks  of  his  preference,  such  as  pulling  down  her  hair, 
breaking  most  of  her  pearls,  and  repeatedly  pulling  her 
chair  from  under  her.  Something,  however,  must  be  al- 
lowed for  the  expansion  of  stocks  and  stones  even  under 
certain  favorable  conditions,  and  Mr.  Brown  was  but 
mortal  man,  Darthuly  Meely  the  dynamic  force  surging 
within  him  and  seeking  expression  in  playful  fancies. 
Even  Timothy  White  made  three  remarks  in  the  course 
of  that  supper,  and  looked  almost  animated  when  fruit- 
cake was  handed.  And  Jinny's  tongue  wagged  freely 
in  spite  of  such  apparently  insuperable  obstacles  to 
conversation  as  biscuits,  and  apples,  and  cakes,  and 
pickles,  of  which  her  mouth  was  full.  "  You  did  jerk 
the  liveliest  to-night,"  she  said  to  Pap.  ""When  I 
knowed  you  was  dead  and  in  your  grave,  I  usened  to 
tell  x\lfrcd  often  that  fur  fiddlin'  his  Pa-ap  beat  all. 
And  so  you  do,  John,  no  matter  who's  the  next  one,  fur 
it's  jcs'  livin'  music  ef  ever  I  heerd  any,  and  you  with 
a  leg  buried,  anyways,  to  my  certain  knowing.  Hit's 
jes'  a  wonderment  how  you  kin." 

One  lady  present  certainly  got  what  Mr.  Newman 
wished  all  to  have,  and  that  was  the  dank  and  grew- 
some,  who,  considering  that  the  meats  were  not  cold 
baked,  nor  served  on  or  out  of  a  coffin,  contrived  to 
dis2:)0se  of  enough  and  to  spare.     She  was  still  sitting 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  281 

over  in  a  corner  with  a  plate  in  her  lank  lap  heaped 
high  with  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  eatables,  with 
which  she  was  aj^parently  making  close  connection  as 
far  as  could  be  seen  (which  was  not  far,  the  black  sun- 
bonnet  being  cast  down  within  an  inch  of  the  same, 
and  mysterious  sounds  of  chumping,  and  cracking,  and 
gslping,  and  gurgling  going  on  under  its  immediate 
protection  as  behind  a  screen),  when  the  company 
trooped  back  to  the  living-room,  leaving  Simon  Peter 
and  Stonewall  Jackson  still  skirmishing  in  the  rear, — 
perhaps  to  cover  their  retreat  and  bring  off  the  D.  and  G-. 
The  evening  was  now  over,  as  soon  appeared.  Mothers 
began  to  think  of  their  babies  and  of  their  bread. 
Fathers  "reckoned  it  was  'bout  time  to  be  gittin'." 
Grandfathers  yawned  dolorously,  and  were  no  longer  to 
be  kept  up  even  by  their  sticks.  Seeing  this,  Mr.  New- 
man made  his  last  official  declaration  :  "  Them  that  goes 
with  the  bride  to  her  home-bringin'  will  git  ready  to 
start  right  away,  aiid  ef  they've  got  any  saddlin'  and 
bridlin'  to  do  they'd  better  be  mighty  quick  about  it,  as 
aforesaid."  A  general  commotion  of  preparation  now 
ensued.  Children  were  sought  for,  shawls  and  bonnets 
resumed,  farewells  made,  and  the  heads  of  families,  the 
elders,  and  the  little  ones  made  their  way  outside,  un- 
hitched their  "  teams,"  clambered  into  their  carts,  and 
then  waited,  as  etiquette  demanded,  for  the  departure 
of  the  bride  and  groom.  Out  came  E.  Mintah  the  next 
moment,  followed  by  Jonah,  and  all  cloaked  and  hooded. 
The  night  was  black  and  starless,  and  it  had  been  diffi- 
cult to  distinguish  anything  or  anybody,  but  now  fully 
fifty  pine-knots  were  lit  in  rapid  succession,  and  flamed 
and  smoked  in  the  fresh  breeze  that  blew  from  the  di- 

24* 


282  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

rection  of  the  Ridge.  And  now  E.  Mintah  was  swept 
up  on  a  white  pony,  with  a  beautiful  flowing  tail  and 
mane,  by  Jonah.  And  now  Jonah  mounted  a  big  bony 
chestnut,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  wife's  bridle-rein. 
And  now  the  j'oung  men  and  maidens  mounted  their 
respective  steeds,  and  fell  into  line  behind  the  first  pair 
who  were  to  be  like  another  first  pair,  of  whom  it  is 
said  that  "Adam  delved  and  Eve  span."  And  now 
Stone  and  Pete  rush  out  and  whisk  up  behind  two  of 
the  cavaliers,  and  cling  there  like  a  couple  of  limpets. 
And  now  R.  Mintah  cries  out,  ''Good-by!  Good-byl" 
over  and  over  again.  "  Good-night,  Pa-ap.  Good-by, 
dear  Mother  Newman.  Good-by,  Father  Newman. 
Come  over  soon.  Good-by  all."  And  Jonah  gives  two 
short  "  good-nights,"  too,  and  the  procession  starts. 
The  gleam  of  R.  Mintah's  red  dress  and  hood  is  seen 
for  some  time,  and  then  is  to  be  seen  no  longer.  The 
carts  and  wagons  all  go  creaking,  rattling  away.  The 
procession  turns  into  the  Red  Lane  now,  and  the  young 
men  and  maidens  burst  into  a  song  full  of  joy  and  tri- 
umph. Mother  Newman  turns  away  in  tears.  The 
dank  and  grewsome  flits  out  into  the  darkness  like  Poe's 
raven.  Matilda  stalks  off  towards  home  in  a  temper 
because  Alfred  has  lingered  so  long.  Little  Willy  is 
fretting,  too,  and  appears  to  be  trying  to  gouge  out  one 
of  his  blue  eyes  with  his  fist.  The  procession  is  wind- 
ing around  the  Mountain  now,  and  the}-  can  see  the 
torches  still  flaming,  still  smoking,  still  borne  aloft. 
And  now  they  have  suddenly  disappeared.  Father 
Newman  goes  in  and  shuts  the  door.  Jonah  and  R 
Mintah  are  married.  Pap,  Alfred,  and  the  child  stum- 
ble home  in  silence, — the  old  leaning,  moss-roofed  home, 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  283 

with  the  tottering  porch  and  the  wavy  chimney,  into 
which  a  bride  as  young  and  fair  as  R.  Mintah  walked 
so  long,  long  ago.  As  they  enter  the  gates,  the  clouds 
part  a  little  and  show  a  brilliant  stretch  of  stars.  And 
Pap  looking  up  at  them  thinks  of  one  who  has  passed 
beyond  them. 


"  How  long  be  crying,  '  Mercy  on  them,  God  1' 
Why,  who  art  thou  to  teach,  and  He  to  learn  ?" 

Omar  Khayam. 

"  And  a  Yoice  spoke :  '  Come  unto  judgment, 
Ye  who  called  Allah  too  merciful.'  " 

Edwin  Arnold. 

The  wedding  seemed  to  have  had  an  unsettling  effect 
upon  Pap,  whose  condition,  morally  and  mentally,  was 
always  one  of  fluidity,  and  who  consequently  was  sub- 
ject to  high  tides  and  low  tides  and  a  thousand  changes 
of  feeling  and  purpose  that  more  solid  and  stolid  folk 
escape  altogether.  He  said,  when  Willy  asked,  "  What 
ails  you,  Pa-ap  ?  Yer  don't  want  to  play  nor  to  go  no- 
whurs,  nor  to  do  nothin',''  that  he  was  "  downhearted," 
and  that  was  it.  E.  Mintah  had  been  happily  settled 
for  a  week  in  the  cottage  that  Jonah  had  built  for  her 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Mountain,  and  was  almost  as 
much  in  love  with  her  new  cooking-stove  as  with  her 
husband,  and  had  received  and  entertained  every  friend 
she  had  with  the  most  effusive  hospitality,  yet  Pap  had 
not  kept  his  promise  to  stop  by  and  see  how  she  was 


284  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"gittin'  on."  "It  don't  matter;  she'll  not  miss  me,"  he 
thought.  "  I  reckon  I'd  of  been  in  the  way  ef  I  had 
of  went.  I  mostly  am,  anyway.  Hit's  a  big  world, 
but  I  'pears  to  take  up  too  much  room  in  it.  I  have 
saw  that   mighty  clear  fur  a  long  while,  and  mayl)c 

'twas  so  before  I  seed  it.     Ef  it  wasn't  fur  Willy " 

It  was  not  until  he  had  been  hard  at  work  for  ten  days, 
and  had  got  a  third  supply  of  "  kindlin' "  ready  for 
market, — a  much  larger,  richer  store  of  fagots,  sure  to 
bring  a  good  deal  more  than  he  had  ever  got, — that  his 
spirits  began  to  revive  at  all.  "  Hit's  every  red  cent 
of  it  goin'  into  the  bank  fur  you,  Will^^  boy,"  he  said 
to  his  little  confidant ;  "  but  don't  you  let  on  I've  got  it, 
fur  she'll  take  it  away.  I'm  going  to  put  it  whur  no- 
body can't  get  it,  so  they  tells  me  ;  not  even  me,  fur  it's 
goin'  in  as  William  Elbert's,  don't  you  see  ?  That's  you, 
honey.  Ain't  that  a  smart  way  to  fix  it?  I'm  goin'  to 
walk  right  in,  and  I'm  goin'  to  say  to  the  man  in  the 
coop  that  they've  got  there,  '  Here,  mister,  here's  five 
dollars.  Hit's  a  big  sum  of  money,  and  it's  been  sawnt 
here  fur  you  to  keep  by  Mr.  William  Elbert,  that's  a 
friend  of  mine'  (that's  you,  Willy  boy),  '  and  nobody 
ain't  to  have  the  handlin'  of  it  but  him.'  I  won't  hitch 
my  horse  till  that's  fixed  right  and  I've  got  shut  of  it. 
I  won't  look  beyant  my  nose.  And  I'm  goin'  to  git  the 
money  all  in  a  chunk.  I  ain't  goin'  to  take  no  dimes, — 
dimes  is  bad,  Willy.  Don't  you  never  keep  'em  about 
your  clothes.     They — gits  lost." 

"  That  money  you  had  was  all  dimes,  wasn't  it,  Pa-ap, 
last  time?" 

"  Well,  yes  ;  it  got  turned  to  dimes.  And  it  got — lost 
— in  a  manner  of  spcakin'." 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  285 

"  You  was  mighty  sorry,  wasn't  you,  Pa-ap  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  was,  honey.  And  this  here  ain't 
agoin'  into  no  dimes.  I'll  give  the  whole  chunk  to  him, 
and  he  won't  lose  none  of  it.  He's  usened  to  takin' 
care  of  jes'  heaps  and  cords  of  money.  Why,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  ef  he  had  a  dollar  fur  every  day  in  the  year 
behind  them  bars  !  Yes,  money  and  time's  things  you 
kin  keep  in  a  chunk;  but  ef  you  once  split  'em  up 
they're  gone.  I  wish  I  had  some  more  of  both.  I'd 
do  a  good  part  by  you,  my  son.  But  I  reckon  you'll 
do  as  good  as  most.  And  when  you  git'  big  and  is 
growed  a  man,  and  has  got  a  fine  business,  me  and 
you  is  goin'  to  live  along  together  all  pleasant,  and 
pleasure  around  mightily,  ain't  we  ?  Me,  and  you, 
and  Bunny,  and  Jim  Wilkins,  and  Corporal  Brass, 
and  Sergeant  Iron?  What  a  heap  of  us!  Hit's 
lucky  some  of  us  don't  take  much  room :  there 
wouldn't  be  no  place  to  hold  us.  Lord!  I  wish  it 
was  now." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  farm,  and  cows,  and  horses,  and 
dogs,  and  sheep,  and  all  kinds  of  stock,  and  a  bunch  of 
shoats,  and  Eowan  ducks,  and  turkeys,  and  chickens, 
and  a  red  waggin,,  and  a  cart,  and  a  buggy,  and  pea- 
cocks,— I  forgot  peacocks, — and  a  orchard,  and  a  gar- 
den, and  all  the  rabbits  and  pigeons  I  kin  ketch  and 
raise,  and  a  snake  in  a  bottle,  and  a  rattin'  purp,  and  a 
saddle  like  Alfred's  got,  and  a  pair  of  boots  that  comes 

way  up,  and "     Willy  had  not  nearly  finished  his 

inventory,  but  was  interrupted, — 

"You  ain't  said  nothin'  'bout  me.  Ain't  I  goin'  to 
be  there  ?" 

"  I'm  comiii'  to  you,"  said  Willy. 


286  BEHIND   THE   BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  Oh  !  you  was,  was  you  ?" 

"When   I'm  done  growcd   up  like  you,  Pa-ap " 

He  was  interrupted  again. 

"  You  ain't  to  go  and  grow  up  hke  me,  honey.  Like 
me !  Don't  you  never  talk  that  way  agin,  my  eon.  It's 
hurtful  to  hear  you.  No  indeed.  There  can't  no  two 
grow  up  the  same  way.  And  you  ain't  no  kin  to  mo, 
my  darlin' !  You'll  grow  up  mighty  defFerent  to  me, — to 
all, — and  be  better,  and  more  respecteder,  and  richer, 
and  luckier,  and  every  way  less  misfortunato  than  some, 
— Billy  Jones,  that  there  Billy  Jones  that's  knowed  as 
Crazy  Billy,  I'm  thinkin'  of." 

"But  I  will  be  like  you,"  said  Willy,  who  was  not 
used  to  contradiction  from  Pap,  and  indeed  was  very 
much  spoiled  by  him. 

"You  shan't!  Ef  you  say  it  agin  I'll  whop  yer! 
And  ef  you  was  to  do  it  you'd  kill  me, — that's  what. 
Do  you  want  to  go  and  kill  your  poor  old  Pa-ap  ? 
Say?  And  you  can't,  neither.  Folks  is  like  eggs.  The 
hatchin's  one  in  a  dozen,  and  the  raisin'  counts  fur 
another,  but  the  Qg:^g  is  all  the  rest.  You  ain't  my  sort 
of  Qgg^  and  you  ain't  'bleeged  nor  obligated  to  be  no  sech 
bird.  I'm  a  black  old  crow,  honey,  but  hit's  a  rejoice- 
ment to  me  to  think  as  you  are  a  little  white  pigeon 
that  can't  never  be  a  crow.  No,  you  ain't  to  be  like 
your  Pa-ap,  nor  to  want  to  be,  fur  I'm  one  of  them  that 
was  spoilt  in  the  makin'  or  the  bakin',  and  I  tells  you 
so  before  you  find  it  out,  so  you  can't  never  go  and  say 
as  Pa-ap  set  hisself  up  before  you  to  be  patterned  after. 
You'll  be  tole  by  some  as  Pa-ap's  a  bad  man,  honey. 
Well,  we  won't  talk  'bout  that.  But  I've  been  good  to 
you,  ain't  I?     You  won't  never  go  from  me,  Willy? 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  287 

You  love  your  old  Pa-ap,  don't  you  ?  Pa-ap  would  give 
his  life  fur  you ;  and  not  be  givin'  much,  neither." 

"  Yes,  I  does,"  affirmed  Willy,  who  had  been  standing 
in  one  of  his  graceful  attitudes  with  his  legs  crossed 
and  his  hands  rammed  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets. 

"  Come  here,  my  darlin'  little  boy !"  exclaimed  Pap, 
and  Willy  complying  he  pressed  him  against  his  side 
and  stroked  his  soft  cheek  for  some  moments  in  silence. 
"  Do  you  love  Pa-ap  or  boots  the  best  ?     Hainh  ?" 

'•  I  loves  you  the  best,''  said  Willy,  after  a  severe  men- 
tal conflict,  "  but  I  jes'  hanker  after  them  boots.  ~  Jonah's 
comes  up  to  his  knee-jints  and  he  kin  go  through  snow 
up  to  his  waist  in  em,  and  ketch  horses,  or  kill  pigs  or 
anything." 

"  Oh,  and  that's  what  you  want  with  'em.  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 
Oh,  you  are  a  man,  you  are, — Pa-ap's  own  little  man ! 
Bless  yer !  I'd  jes'  love  to  give  you  them  boots,  honey, 
shore.  I'm  well  acquainted  with  a  man  in  Winston 
that's  got  'em  to  sell :  the  prettiest,  all  fixed  off  with  red 
'round  the  tops.  I  could  jes'  see  your  little  legs  workin' 
in  'em  and  you  bobbin'  about  in  'em  as  big  as  the  next 
one.  But  I  reckon  we'll  have  to  wait  fur  'em  ;  times  is 
got  so  bad  fur  Pa-ap.  I  ain't  got  nothin'  I  could  sell. 
There  used  to  be  a  right  smart  chance  of  stock  'bout  the 

place  when  I  was  a  child;  but  my  father That's 

a  good  whip  of  your'n  yet,  Willy,  or  will  be  when  it  gits 
a  new  handle  and  another  cracker.  Some  folks  would 
steal  the  money ;  but  it  would  be  a  big  sin  fur  a  little 
gain,  and  I  ain't  never  teched  nothin'  all  my  life  long 
that  was  belongin'  to  no  person.  And  I  wouldn't  fur 
the  world.  I'd  starve  first.  I  ain't  the  man  to  do  sech 
a  low  thing.     No,  indeed." 


288  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Pap's  visit  to  the  bank  was  delayed  for  ten  days 
after  this.  The  more  he  thoui^ht  of  the  red-topped 
boots  and  of  what  Willy's  joy  would  be  in  possessing 
them,  the  more  he  felt  that  he  must  make  or  find  a 
way  to  get  them.  So  he  increased  his  store  of  wood, 
counted  his  bundles,  reckoned  up  what  he  would  have, 
shook  his  head,  and  was  for  the  moment  baffled.  Next 
day  he  sold  his  one  gray  hen,  and  a  lame  duck  to  Dar- 
thuly  Meely,  who  was  "  fixin'  to  git  married,"  and 
meant  to  feather  the  nest  of  the  future  with  some 
poultry  of  "  her  own  bringin'  and  raisin'."  Then  he 
counted  again,  and  again  shook  his  head.  "  The 
weather's  warm  ;  I  don't  want  no  coat.  That'll  be  it!" 
be  argued,  and  sold  the  coat,  counted  again  very  care- 
fully on  his  fingers,  and  smiled,-  this  time,  and  thought, 
"  I'll  go  to-morrow.  Won't  my  boy  go  plum'  crazy 
'most  when  he  sees  'em." 

He  rose  at  daylight  next  morning,  accordingly,  and 
going  out  to  the  hillside  pasture,  brought  in  the  family 
horse,  who  was  nosing  about  among  the  stones  there 
looking  for  something  to  eat.  The  result  was  so  dis- 
heartening that  he  would,  as  a  colt,  have  made  no  re- 
sistance to  having  the  bridle  slipped  over  his  head,  and, 
as  it  was,  actually  came  slowly  to  meet  Pap,  and  wearily 
regarded  him  as  if  he  had  hoped  for  something  in  that 
quarter,  too,  and  had  been  disappointed. 

"Po'  old  fellow  !"  said  Pa-ap.  "  I  hain't  got  a  bite  fur 
you, — not  a  bite.  This  here's  a  hard  world  me  and  you's 
got  into,  Billy,  ain't  it  now?"  and  so  took  him  by  the 
forelock  and  led  him  in.  Billy's  whole  appearance  was  a 
confirmation  of  this  fact,  and  nothing  that  he  could  have 
said,  if  he  had  been  endowed,  like  Balaam's  ass,  with  the 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  289 

gift  of  speech,  could  have  been  as  mournfully  eloquent. 
No  horse,  except  a  towel-horse,  was  ever  more  angular 
about  the  hips  and  well  defined  about  the  ribs.  He  had 
only  one  eye.  He  was  string-halted.  He  was  broken- 
winded.  His  back  had  not  been  entirely  well  for  ten 
years,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  had  ever  had 
enough  to  eat  in  his  whole  miserable  life.  His  coat 
had  once  been  black, — a  thousand  years  before,  in  that 
dim  period  in  which  he  had  gone  frisking  about  a 
world  of  green  grass  that  he  believed  would  develop 
into  abundant  pastures,  but  which  never  did  yield  more 
than  the  scantiest  nibblings;  in  which  he  had  laughed 
at  the  stones  on  the  hillside,  not  knowing  how  they 
were  destined  to  break  his  teeth ;  and  had  galloped 
about  with  the  most  foolish  notions  in  the  world  of 
what  it  was  to  be  a  civilized  horse,  tossing  his  mane  in 
the  faces  of  those  who  would  have  enlightened  him. 
It  was  now  whitey-brown,  like  a  certain  kind  of  wrap- 
ping-paper, and  wrinkled  about  him  as  if  it  were  paper, 
badly  put  on. 

Such  as  he  was,  he  was  invaluable  to  the  Shores,  and 
Pap  had  nothing  but  praise  for  him,  as  he  invested  him 
with  a  set  of  harness  which  was  certainly  more  orig- 
inal than  ornamental,  composed,  as  it  was,  of  rope,  odd 
bits  of  leather,  a  shuck-collar,  and  grape-vine  traces. 

"Good  Billy!  Good  old  fellow!  Cheer  up  now.  It 
ain't  fur  to  whur  you're  goin'.  No.  Me  and  you's 
goin'  on  a  good  errand  this  day,  if  you  did  but  know  it, 
— to  put  money  by  fur  little  Willy  to  git  edgercated  and 
take  a  front  place  with.  Not  like  you  and  me,  Billy. 
Back,  sir  I" 

Thus  accoutred,  Billy  was  attached  to  an  extremely 
N        t  25 


290  BEHIND    THE  BLUE   RIDGE. 

primitive  vehicle,  with  scarcely  any  iron  about  it, — a 
Bort  of  elongated  hen-coop  swung  on  poles,  Laving 
wheels  of  the  most  solid  description,  sawed  out  of  the 
section  of  a  tree,  and  a  tar -bucket  pendent  in  the  rear. 
Having  inspected  the  harmonious  whole,  and  spent  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  tying  up,  strengthening,  splicing 
the  dubious  places  in  the  gear,  Pap  shut  his  knife  and 
put  it  with  the  ball  of  twine  back  in  his  pocket,  and 
leading  Billy  on  a  bit,  hitched  him  to  the  fence  to  wait 
until  breakfast  should  be  over. 

"  Is  that  you,  Pa-ap  ?  Is  you  done  hitched  up  ?  Can't 
I  go,  too?  Let  me  go,  too,  won't  you?  Say?"  ex- 
claimed Willy,  running  out  to  join  him. 

"  No,  honey.  I  can't  take  you  this  time.  I  can't, 
indeed.  Alfred  and  me's  goin'  two  together  j:)e;"f/At'Zer. 
But  when  I  comes  home  you  jes'  look  back  there  by 
that  there  tar-bucket  and  see  what  5'ou'll  see!  That's 
all.  Come  'long  in  to  breakfast."  When  Pap  came  out 
again,  he  had  his  own  quota  of  bread  intact  in  his  hand 
and  proceeded  to  feed  old  Billy  with  it,  who  turned  his 
head  mournfully  towards  him  when  hailed  with  "  Here 
you  arel  You  poor  old  critter,  you!  Put  this  down. 
Maybe  it'll  help  you  a  leetle,  lackin'  the  right  fillin," 
and  feebly  disposed  of  it,  with  a  kind  of  low-spirited 
satisfaction  that  was  suggestive  of  a  long  course  of  de- 
pressingl}^  inadequate  "  feeds,"  tempered  by  unsubstan- 
tial windfalls  like  the  present  one.  He  then  looked 
around  again  at  Pap  with  the  peculiar  roll  of  the  eyes 
so  expressive  of  a  lingering  faith  triumphing  over  much 
painful  experience,  and  Paj:),  answering  it,  said,  ''No 
more,  Billy.  Not  a  crumb.  You  don't  want  to  hust^ 
do  yer  ?"  and  climbed  up  into  the  hen-coop  to  wait  there 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE,  291 

for  Alfred.  At  this  moment  Mr.  Carver  came  riding  up 
on  a  stout  cob,  looking  as  solemn  and  severe  as  when 
he  had  ridden  away,  and  roared  out  Alfred's  name  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.  Alfred  came  out  hurriedlj",  and 
Mr.  Carver  entered  upon  a  matter  of  business, — some- 
thing relating  to  a  cow  he  bad  bought  of  him,  which 
had  developed  a  post-sale  tendency  to  hollow  horn. 
After  some  talk  between  them,  meekly  apologetic  on 
Alfred's  part,  deeply  disapproving,  not  to  say  surly,- 
on  Mr.  Carver's,  the  former  concluded  that  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  go  and  have  a  look  at  the  interest- 
ing invalid.  So  he  got  out  a  large  leathern  bag  that 
would  have  held  the  small  change  of  the  Eothschilds 
and  gave  it  to  his  father,  saying  in  an  impressive  whisper 
to  his  father,  "'Twas  fur  this  I  was  goin'  to  town. 
Matildy's  savin's  fur  pooty  nigh  two  years.  Twenty-five 
dollars!  That's  money,  now,  hain't  it?  I  'lowed  to 
put  it  in  bank  myself,  and  it's  what  I  ought  to  do,  I 
do  reckon.  But  this  here  cow,  now ;  throwed  back  on 
my  hands, — couldn't  you  do  it  ?  Jes'  hand  it  in,  and 
bring  back  the  showin'  fur  it  they'll  give  yer.  Kain't 
you,  now?" 

"  Why,  certainly,  and  surely,  my  son,"  said  Pap. 

"  Hit's  money.    Don't  you  forgit  that  you've  got  a  big 

pile,  and "  Alfred  stopped.    "  Go  do  nothin'  with  it," 

was  what  he  thought,  but  he  substituted  "  disremember 
to  take  it;  and  git  the  showin',  mind!  I  do  reckon 
I  oughter  to  go.  But  Mr.  Carver  says  she's  shakin' 
her  head  backards  and  furrards  constant  and " 

"  What  are  you  fearin'  ?"  asked  Pap,  testily.  "  I  ain't 
never  stole  nothin'  as  you  knows  on,  nothin'  of  your'n, 
is  I  ?" 


292  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"No.  No.  Well.go'long.  Biitbar  in  mind  hit's mon^y, 
Pa-ap,"  said  Alfred  ;  and  bis  father  shook  the  rope  reins, 
and  old  Billy  made  an  effort,  and  the  hen-coop  went  wind- 
ing on  its  creaky  way  down  the  lane.  It  did  not  get 
very  far,  though,  for,  as  invariably  happened  when  Pap 
started  to  town,  somebody  came  running  out  of  every 
other  cottage  with  "arrants"  (errands)  for  him  to  do, 
and  he  had,  of  course,  to  stop  and  get  his  instructions. 
Grandma  Williams  sent  out  in  hot  haste  to  beg  that  be 
would  take  her  "  eye  specs"  in  and  have  them  mended. 
*'  Both  par's  broke  and  she  can't  do  nothin',"  said  her 
messenger.  Mrs.  Williams's  spectacles  were  as  well 
known  on  the  Mountain  as  Mrs.  Croesus's  diamonds  in 
New  York,  and  the  fact  of  her  having  two  pair  repre- 
sented as  much  opulence.  Then  there  were  Mrs.  New- 
man's turkeys  to  leave  at  "  a  sto'."  And  Jinny  Hodges 
wanted  a  spool  of  cotton  "  bad."  And  Mrs.  Landon 
had  some  butter  "  waitin'  a  week  to  be  kerried."  And 
Mrs.  Culbert  couldn't  "git  along  another  minnit  'thout 
some  terbacker."  Altogether,  by  the  time  the  Eed 
Lane  had  been  traversed,  old  Billy  was  quite  worn  out 
with  the  strain  of  so  many  false  starts,  and  the  hen- 
coop was  full  of  baskets  and  bundles,  piled  high  above 
the  wood,  and  Pap's  mind  burdened  with  a  dozen  com- 
missions, although  he  had  cheerfully  agreed  to  every- 
thing ]>roposed.  Once  on  the  turnpike,  however,  he 
laid  aside  all  care,  and,  with  cheerful  cries  to  his  equine 
Cyclops,  set  himself  to  enjoy  the  drive.  His  bosom's 
lord  sat  lightly  on  his  throne.  He  turned  more  than 
once  to  look  at  the  little  load  of  kindling  behind  him, 
as  if  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  there.  He  had  al- 
ready in  his  own  mind  deposited  the  money  he  was  to 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  293 

get  for  it,  and  laid  the  foundation-stone  of  Willy's  future 
fortune.  He  was  at  peace  with  himself  and  all  the 
world.  The  day,  too,  was  very  beautiful,  and  Pap,  ever 
susceptible  to  such  influences,  enjoyed  that,  too, — en- 
joyed the  autumnal  glory  of  the  woods,  the  greening 
wheat-fields,  the  fir  plantations ;  noted  the  haAvk's  re- 
poseful movement  overhead,  the  intense  blue  of  the 
sky,  cloudless,  except  where  a  long  chain  of  cloud-Alps 
stretched  behind  the  actual  mountains  more  than  half- 
way around  the  horizon.  "  This  here's  a  country,''  he 
thought,  meaning  that  at  its  worst  the  Yalley  is  so  rich 
in  color  and  gracious  of  curve,  so  full  of  noble  eff'ects 
of  outline  and  delicately-beautiful  silhouettes  in  foliage 
(as  of  gigantic  bits  of  seaweed  set  against  its  clear  skies), 
that  th<3  ugly  skeleton  of  a  world  revealed  farther  north 
by  falling  leaves,  and  the  desolate  swamps  that  show 
such  gloomy  depths  and  wastes  farther  South,  were  by 
comparison  odious.  His  thoughts  were  as  bright  as  the 
crowds  of  yellow  butterflies  that  started  up  all  along 
the  road  as  old  Billy  jogged  past  them.  Ah,  yes !  He 
would  work  and  save  more  money  for  Willy.  Willy 
should  be  "  high-learnt"  and  "  notable"  and  "  go  ahead." 
Willy  should  be  "  a  man  to  brag  on ;"  and  he  shouldn't 
have  to  be  ashamed  of  his  Pap,  either.  All  that  was 
behind  him, — put  away  for  good  and  all.  The  warmth 
of  the  sun  was  not  more  grateful  on  his  coatless  back 
than  these  genial  and  inspiring  beliefs.  Willj^  was 
"gittin'  a  leetle  too  high  some  ways,  and  would  have  to 
be  brung  down,"  if  he  could  bring  himself  to  discipline 
him,  but  what  after  all  were  such  childish  faults  ?  What 
a  dear  little  fellow  he  was !  How  he  would  delight  in 
"them  boots!"     He  turned  now  into  the  Winston  road. 

25* 


294  BEHIND  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

The  Mountain  was  now  on  his  right,  and  the  particular 
deity  whom  the  Indians  believed  to  inhabit  it  seemed  a 
friendly  and  benignant  spirit,  with  a  care  for  poor  old 
men  and  helpless  children,  as  he  glanced  back  at  its 
blue  bulk  of  familiar  outline.  It  was  still  "  twelve  mile" 
to  Winston.  Old  Billy  walked  for  the  most  part,  and 
seemed  to  be  doing  a  great  deal  in  doing  that^  as  Pap 
noticed,  and  so  forbore  to  urge  him  to  greater  speed. 
The  sun  waxed  extraordinarily  hot  with  the  heat  of  a 
last  day  of  summer.  The  dust  made  Pap  nearly  as 
white  as  a  miller,  and  old  Billy  several  shades  more  for- 
lorn than  ever,  although  that  had  seemed  impossible. 
The  drive  had  grown  monotonous,  as  the  freshness  of 
the  morning  had  worn  away,  and  Pap  looked  behind 
him  with  interest  when  he  heard  the  rattling  of  wheels. 
A  wagon  was  close  upon  him.  He  recognized  the  driver, 
but  pretended  that  he  had  not  seen  him,  and  looked 
straight  ahead  for  some  moments.  The  wagon  gained 
upon  him,  and  finally  came  alongside.  "  Howdy, 
Johnny!  Howdy.  Goin'  to  town  ?"  said  a  voice  that 
Pap  knew.  Pap  affected  not  to  hear.  "  Goin'  to  taown, 
ain't  yer?"  reiterated  the  man,  and  now  Pap  was  obliged 
to  reply.  "  'Twould  'pear  so,  Lem'l,"  he  said,  shortly, — 
very  shortly  for  him. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  man. 

"  I  don't  reckon, — I  ain't  got  no  notion  as  we'er  goin' 
the  same  way,"  said  Pap,  very  decidedh",  with  a  feeling 
of  strong  irritation.  Why  had  Lem'l  Harding  come  to 
blot  all  the  fair  prospect  when  he  was  feeling  good,  and 
doing  good,  and  had  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  faithful  and 
peaceable  in  Israel?  It  cast  a  shadow  over  him  merely 
to  look  at  his  companion  ;  and  impatient  to  be  rid  of 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  295 

him,  he  whipped  up  old  Billy  into  the  mournful  sem- 
hlance  of  a  trot,  and  left  him  behind,  hearing,  "Hum! 
What's  the  matter  with  you^  Johnny  ?  You  ain't  always 
so  high  and  fur  off,"  as  he  moved  away. 

Lem'l  Harding  was  a  man  of  evil  reputation  on  the 
Mountain.  He  was  known  to  be  "  a  horse-trader,"  and 
suspected  of  being  a  horse-thief  He  was  accounted  so 
hard  and  shrewd  in  his  bargains  that  it  was  said  of  him 
that  "  the  devil  buttered  couldn't  slip  through  Lem'l's 
fingers."  He  was  known  to  be  so  unscrupulous  that  it 
was  constantly  supposed  that  he  would  be  "jailed." 
Yet,  somehow,  he  contrived  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of 
the  prison-doors,  and  gained  a  half-respectful  consider- 
ation, even,  by  his  clever  avoidance  of  all  the  punish- 
ments due  his  dubious  dealings.  A  tremendous  poli- 
tician was  Lem'l.  His  vote  was  always  to  be  had  for 
the  bidding,  and  he  would  have  helped  to  put  Beelzebub 
in  ofiice  for  a  consideration,  but  none  the  less  he  prated 
eloquently"  of  all  the  issues  at  stake  in  every  election  in 
a  tone  of  the  most  lofty  public  morality  and  private  de- 
votion to  all  noble  ends,  and  would  stop  for  three  hours 
on  the  high  road  to  "  argy  the  rights  of  it"  (with  the 
price  of  his  own  wrong-doing  in  his  pocket),  en  route  to 
the  polls,  dazing,  confusing,  and  quite  overwhelming 
some  muddle-minded  mountaineer  of  limited  views  and 
incorruptible  character,  whose  whole  political  creed  was 
embraced  in  "  old  Virginia  forever,"  and  a  fond  belief 
that  taxes  would  be  "  took  off"  by  the  right  party  if  the 
right  party  could  ever  get  in.  When  Mr.  Lem'l  Hard- 
ing was  not  pulling  at  a  long  weedy  beard  and  discuss- 
ing some  vexed  political  problem,  he  was  talking  about 
the  war;  and  although  he  was  known  to  have  "  hid  out" 


296  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

in  the  mountainp  all  during  that  struggle  ho  was  so 
eloquent  in  his  description  of  the  battles  in  which  he 
had  not  been  engaged  (when  no  old  soldiers  were 
around)  that  he  passed  for  a  veteran  often  with  a 
younger  generation,  and  represented  himself  as  having 
distinguished  himself  on  a  thousand  fields,  and  saved  the 
day  over  and  over  again,  with  such  a  wealth  of  inaccu- 
rate accuracies  as  to  time,  place,  weather,  contending 
forces,  commanders,  strategic  movements,  and  results 
that  he  sometimes  deceived  even  the  elect.  But  John 
Shore  was  not  one  of  those  who  thought  him  as  terrible 
in  war  as  in  peace,  and  whenever  a  Shenandoah  scout 
was  in  the  audience  it  wa3  observed  that  Lem'l  was 
straightway  transformed  from  a  lion  to  a  lamb,  and 
though  he  could  no  more  have  got  up  a  blush  than  his 
wife's  brass  "  perservin'-kittle,"  he  had  the  grace  in  such 
companies  to  eliminate  himself  from  his  reminiscences 
of  the  war,  and  content  himself  with  pointing  out  Lee's 
mistake  in  not  "marchin'  spang  on  Washington,"  and 
proving  that  Grant  could  have  taken  Kichmond  any  day 
he  wanted  it. 

Pap  had  no  sort  of  respect  or  liking  for  him,  "knew 
him  fur  a  skulker,"  believed  that  he  "  beat  his  wife,  as 
folks  said, — 'twas  like  the  coward," — vowed  that  he  was 
"  the  meanest  white  man  in  the  whole  country-side." 
But  the  fellow's  glib  tongue  and  a  certain  surface  good- 
fellowship  had  made  it  difficult  to  decline  the  pleasure 
of  his  acquaintance  altogether;  and  the  acquaintance 
once  made,  Lem'l  had  found  it  easy  to  enforce  rather 
than  cement  it,  for  the}'  had  this  much  in  common, — 
the  same  vice. — and  while  there  was  the  width  of  the 
world  between  the  weakness  of  one  and  the  wickedness 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  297 

of  the  other,  and  though  Pap  sober  would  have  pre- 
ferred any  companionship  to  that  of  "Shifty  Lem'l,"  as 
Mr.  Harding  was  called  on  the  Mountain,  there  had 
been  other  times  in  which  a  community  of  evil-doing 
had  established  a  relation  that  Pap  at  once  hated  and 
submitted  to.  Mr.  Harding  was  not  easily  rebuffed,  as 
may  readily  be  imagined,  and  in  a  little  while  his  wagon 
was  on  a  level  with  Pap's  again,  and  he  had  reopened 
the  conversation. 

"  That's  a  fine  big  load  of  your'n,"  he  said.  "  You'll 
have  money  to  spend." 

''  Not  a  dime,"  said  Pap.  "  This  here  is  to  be  put  by 
fur  Willy  in  bank  to  git  edgereated  with." 

"Oh,  pshur!  that  won't  go  fur,"  observed  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. "  You  might's  well  spend  it, — withouten  you've 
got  mo'  'n  that." 

"  That's  as  I  think,  I  reckon,"  said  Pap,  and  turned 
away  his  head. 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  while,  and  then  Mr. 
Harding  began  again, — 

"  Got  in  your  fodder  yit  ?  We  all's  had  our'n  in  a 
week,  and  better  you  never  seed." 

"  I  don't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  farmin',"  said  Pap, 
and  tried  to  get  old  Bilh'  into  another  trot,  seeing  which 
Mr.  Harding  jerked  up  his  team  and  fell  in  behind,  say- 
ing, "  Yer  mighty  onsociable  to-day.  You  must  er  put 
your  clothes  on  wrong  side  out  when  you  dressed  3'er- 
self,  ain't  yer  ?  I've  knoioed  you  more  speakable  before 
now,"  with  much  significance. 

On  they  w^ent  for  a  mile  and  more,  and  then  came 
upon  Darthuly  Meely,  who  had  started  to  town  at  day- 
light, and  was  walking  along  with  her  shoes  in  her  hand 


298  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

and  a  basket  on  her  arm.  She  hailed  them  and  asked 
Pap  for  a  lift,  which,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he 
granted.  "With  much  mincing  coquetry  of  mien  she 
came  up  over  the  side  of  the  hen-coop  and  seated  her- 
self among  the  bundles,  saying,  "  I  ain't  never  been 
seed  with  my  foot  to  the  ground  befo'  in  all  my  born 
days.  But  my  !  but  these  shoes  pinch.  They  oughtn't 
to  hurt.  I  give  a  dollar  fur  'em.  But  hit's  jes'  seemed 
like  I  couldn't  take  another  step  in  'em.  And  there 
warn't  no  use  in  wcarin  out  the  sfocA'm's  jes'  so  fur  fool- 
ishness. I  didn't  'low  to  meet  nobodj'.  My  !  I  certainly 
am  'shamed  befo'  your  face.  I'm  goin'  to  put  'em  right 
straight  on  this  minnit."  Darthuly  Meely  had  her  little 
affectations  like  some  other  maidens,  and  fluttered  al?out 
considerably  before  she  got  settled  to  her  satisfac- 
tion. Pap  onl}'  smiled  and  said,  "Pshur!  whur's  the 
shame?"  Shoes  were  not  made  for  "folks"  to  walk 
in  for  miles  and  miles,  but  were  an  ornamental  finish  to 
such  expeditions,  it  was  thought,  on  the  Mountain. 
And  stockings  were  will-o'-the-wisps  to  be  longed  for, 
and  seen  afar  in  shop-windows,  very  occasionally  se- 
cui-ed,  and  still  more  rarel}^  worn.  Darthul}-  Meely's 
had  red  stripes  and  she  was  \Qvy  vain  of  them,  and 
cast  many  a  glance  at  the  only  persons  who  were  near 
enough  to  be  dazzled  by  her  splendor  as  she  invested 
herself  with  the  order  of  the  garter  and  its  accessories. 
Mr.  Harding  took  advantage  of  this  much  encourage- 
ment to  draw  near  again.  Old  Billy  had  looked  around 
with  a  plaintive  "  Oh,  Lord,  how  long !"  glance  w^hen 
he  became  aware  that  his  burden  had  been  increased  by 
a  hundred  and  thirty  pounds  of  rustic  loveliness,  and 
had  then  stru^•irlcd  noblv  on.     It  was  not  difficult  for 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  299 

Mr.  Harding  with  bis  four  horses  to  keep  pace  with  hini. 
A  lively  conversation  began  between  Darthuly  Meely 
and  himself.  Pap  not  wishing  to  join  in  it  kept  silent. 
Then,  noticing  after  a  bit  what  a  pull  poor  old  Billy  was 
having  of  it,  he  got  out,  and  taking  his  crutch  walked 
for  two  miles  beside  his  four-footed  friend,  not  sorry  to 
have  the  hen-coop  between  himself  and  Mr.  Harding's 
restless  black  eyes.  Mr.  Harding  hailed  him,  and  of- 
fered him  a  seat  in  his  wagon,  which  he  declined. 
Darthuly  Meely  waxed  arch,  and  declared  that  she  was 
"loadin'  that  waggin'  up  fur  a  bad  breakdown,"  and 
started  to  get  out.  Mr.  Harding,  to  her  great  surprise, 
of  course,  offered  her  a  seat,  which  she  accepted.  Dar- 
thuly Meely  would  have  flirted  with  Mephisto,  and 
Mr.  Harding  was  the  only  available  substitute  for  the 
Prince  of  Darkness  at  hand.  Pap  begged  her  to  stay 
where  she  was,  but  she  insisted  that  it  would  be  "on- 
merciful,  and  onmerciful  was  a  thing  she  wasn't  and 
wouldn't  be."  So  Pap  got  back  into  his  place,  and  on 
they  went  again.  "  He's  keepin'  hisself  to  hisself,  and 
is  mighty  fur  and  cogitive,"  said  Mr.  Harding,  sotto 
voce,  "  but  I've  kiiowed  him  sociable.  Oh,  yes,  I've 
knowed  him  sociable." 

It  became  more  difficult  every  moment  for  a  man 
of  Pap's  kindly  nature  to  reject  the  conversational 
advances  of  Mr.  Leni'l  Harding.  "Let's  halt  a  bit. 
That  critter  of  your'n,  Johnny,  is  blowed, — regular 
blowed."  Pap  did  not  wish  to  stop,  but  it  was  evident 
that  old  Billy  did,  so  they  halted  awhile.  It  was 
now  impossible  for  Pap  to  "keep  hisself  to  hisself" 
any  longer,  and  what  he  would  have  called  "  a  stiff 
conversement"  followed.     "Johnny,  he's  goin'  to  bank; 


P,00  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

he's  proud,"  said  Mr.  Ilarding.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder 
cf  he'd  got  fifty  cents  to  lay  by." 

"  I've  got  thirty  dollars,  or  will  have  when  my  wood's 
sold,''  said  Pap,  quickly,  not  insensible  to  the  sneer, 
and  then  added,  "  but  hit's  all  Matilda's  'most.  She's  a 
savin'  woman." 

A  glint  of  light  sprang  into  Mr.  Harding's  black  ej^es. 
He  gave  Pap  a  long,  attentive  glance.  "  That  poor 
critter  of  your'n  needs  a  feed.  Look  at  him.  Got  any 
corn  to  feed  to- him?"  he  said. 

Pap  looked  at  old  Billy,  whose  uncertain  forelegs 
were  a  good  deal  hooped,  and  whose  long  neck  was 
stretched  up  the  bank  in  search  of  a  tuft  of  anything 
that  a  miserable  horse  could  eat.  "  Ko.  I'm  mighty 
mvvy.  But  I  hain't  got  nothin'  fur  him,"  confessed 
Pap. 

Down  got  Mr.  Harding,  or,  rather,  off,  from  the  stout 
horse  he  was  riding  postilion-fashion  and  into  his 
wagon,  where  he  sought  and  found  a  bag  of  corn.  This 
he  brought  forth,  and,  scattering  about  half  a  bushel 
down  before  old  Billy's  incredulous  eyes,  said,  "  Thar, 
let  him  take  all  he  w^ants." 

Pap  was  astonished.  Lem'l  was  not  supposed  to  be 
of  the  prodigal  sort,  except  in  the  first  person  singular. 
Pap  was  softened,  more  so  than  by  any  favor  that 
could  have  been  shown  himself.  "  Thanky,"  he  said. 
"  Thank}^  kindly,  Lem'l,"  and  loosed  old  Billy's  bit  and 
bridle  that  he  might  thoroughly  enjoy  the  treat,  say- 
ing, '•  Now,  Bill}',  boy,  do  you  jes'  stuff.  It's  what  I'd 
give  you  every  day  ef  I  had  my  way  or  my  own. 
Don't  you  let  up  on  it  till  ycr  can't  swaller."  Billy  did 
not  need  this  injunction,  it  is  certain.     Stuff   he  did, 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  301 

swelling  visibly  before  their  eyes,  snuffing  greedily  at 
every  ear,  as  it  rolled  here  and  there,  in  an  agony  lest  it 
should  get  away  from  him  before  he  could  make  all  this 
bliss  his  own,  and  leave  him  a  prey  to  the  bitterest 
memories  of  what  might  have  been. 

His  face  was  softened  and  mild  when  he  again  looked 
at  Pap  and  asked  him  to  let  his  girth  out  two  holes, 
which  was  done,  Pap  saying,  "  You  feel  like  a  Qgg,  don't 
yer,  Billy  ?"  and  patting  his  neck  as  he  slipped  back 
the  bridle,  "  I  wish  I  was  a  critter.  I  wish  that  much 
corn  'd  fill  me,  leastways,  not  bein'  a  critter,"  he  thought, 
and  the  satisfaction  he  had  in  mind  was  not  a  gastro- 
nomic one. 

By  the  time  Winston  was  reached,  Mr.  Harding  had 
contrived  to  get  on  reasonably  good  terms  with  Pap. 
Darthuly  Meely  alighted  on  the  edge  of  town,  thinking 
that  she  avoided  thereby  being  taken  for  a  country-girl, 
and  took  her  way  down  one  of  the  side-streets,  where, 
to  her  great  mortification,  she  was  stopped  not  five 
minutes  later  by  a  lady  who  wished  to  know  whether 
that  W'as  butter  in  her  basket  and  w^hat  she  asked  for  it. 

"  This  here  is  your  way  ef  you're  goin'  to  any  bank," 
said  Mr.  Harding  to  Pap.     Pap  made  no  answer. 

"I  said  this  here  was  your  way,"  repeated  Mr. 
Harding. 

"  Yes.     I  heerd  you,"  said  Pap. 

"  I'm  goin'  'round  that  way,"  said  Mr.  Harding. 

"  Tm  goin'  this  here  road,"  repHed  Pap,  and  was  about 
to  turn  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  when  Mr.  Harding 
said,  "  That  road  don't  lead  nowhur.  This  here  is  your 
road,  Johnny." 

"  I  reckon  I  kin  diges'  my  mind  'thout  you  chewin'  it 
26 


302  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE, 

fust  to  make  it  easy  fur  me,  Lem'l.  G'lonc:,  Billy,"  said 
Pup,  dryly,  and  oif  be  went,  leaving  Mr.  Harding  check- 
mated for  the  time  being. 

It  was  about  this  hour  that  Matilda,  going  out  into 
the  Eed  Lane,  found  an  old  gypsy  seated  near  her  gate 
on  the  remains  of  a  wooden  rocking-chair,  with  a  heap 
of  bundles  tumbled  down  at  her  feet.  She  w^as  the 
most  ghastly  old  hag  that  one  could  see  in  a  lifetime. 
She  would  have  been  burnt  for  a  witch  on  sight  any- 
where in  England  or  America  a  hundred  years  ago. 
The  witch  of  Endor  could  never  have  been  more  wrin- 
kled, yellow,  toothless,  forbidding,  nor  the  Fates  or 
Furies  more  haglike  and  full  of  sinister  suggestion. 
She  looked  a  thousand  j'ears  old,  and  as  though  she  had 
sjient  every  day  of  the  time  in  purgatory.  Her  dress 
was  torn  open  in  front,  that  she  might  breathe  more 
freely.  Her  one  wisp  of  gray  hair  fell  over  her  shoul- 
ders from  beneath  what  had  once  been  a  hat.  Her  poor 
old  feet  were  bare  and  covered  with  dust.  Altogether 
she  was  such  a  terrible  incarnation  of  the  misery  and 
poverty  that  exists  in  the  world,  that  one  would  have 
supposed  that  the  veriest  Pharisee,  seeing  her,  would 
smite  upon  his  breast,  and  cry,  "  God  forgive  me  my 
share  of  the  sufferings  of  my  fellow-creatures,"  and  long 
to  tear  off  his  costly  robes  and  broad  phj^lacteries,  "  go, 
sell  all."  She  had  been  sitting  there  for  some  time  weep- 
ing in  the  mechanical  fashion  of  the  very  old,  crooning 
and  complaining  to  herself:  "  Oh,  here  we  are !  But  we'll 
not  be  let  to  stay.  They  drive  us  off  everj^where, — 
everywhere.  They  tell  us  lo  git  out  of  the  road,  even, 
and  won't  let  us  cook  the  little  we've  got  by  the  roadside, 
'cause  it  frightens  the  horses,  they  say.     Oh,  they  don't 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  303 

know  what  we  suffer!  They  don't  know  what  we 
suffer !  Some  few  of  'em's  kind ;  not  many.  They're 
mostly  hard  and  mean  and  wicked.  And  they  call 
themselves  Christians.  Oh,  they  don't  know  what  we 
suffer !  Them  that  would  help  us  can't.  Them  that 
can't,  won't.  That's  the  way  of  it.  On  the  tramp  since 
the  1st  of  March,  and  my  feet  all  cut  up  with  the  stones. 
I  want  a  house  and  a  bed  and  some  butter.  I  don't 
have  anything  I  can  eat.  I  ain't  tasted  butter  I  don't 
know  the  day  when.  I  can't  eat  everything.  My  teeth's 
all  gone.     Oh,  ef  I  had  a  bed  to  lie  down  on!" 

Matilda  caught  part  of  this  lament  as  she  advanced, 
but  was  not  in  the  least  touched  by  it.  The  old  womam 
went  over  it  all  again,  poor  soul !  as  if  it  were  out  of 
the  bitterness  of  her  soul  that  her  mouth  spake,  adding 
that  her  son  had  gone  to  get  some  wood  and  water  to 
make  a  fire  and  cook  what  they  had,  if  they  were  not 
"  driv  off."  But  driven  off  they  were.  Matilda  hated 
gypsies,  and  was  merciless.  When  the  son  came  up  she 
abused  the  pair  roundly  as  tramps,  and  vagabonds,  and 
worse,  and  obliged  them  to  move  on.  The  man  grew 
impudent  in  return,  but  gathered  together  his  bundles 
and  prepared  to  obey.  The  old  woman's  skinny  claws 
tightened  upon  her  shawl,  and  if  she  had  been  terrible 
before,  she  was  more  so  now,  as,  trembling  with  passion, 
she  rose  and,  coming  close  to  Matilda,  glared  upon  her 
in  ghastly  hideousness.  "  Curse  you !  Curse  you ! 
Curse  you  for  a  flint !"  she  shrieked  out.  "  You  drive 
me  away, — an  old  woman,  past  seventy,  that's  dropped 
down  at  your  gate.  Your  turn  '11  come.  I  can  wait. 
You  are  born,  but  you  are  not  dead  yet.  Curse  you  for 
a  Christian  r     The   hate,  the   fury,  the   scorn   of  her 


304  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

glance  and  voice,  was  enough  to  appall  the  stoutest 
heart,  and  as  she  hobbled  away  a  chill  ran  through 
Matilda's  veins. 

She  was  not  a  good  woman,  but  she  was  a  supersti- 
tious one,  and  there  was  horror  for  her  in  the  prophecy 
and  menace  of  the  gypsy.  She  would  have  run  after 
her  and  tried  to  soothe  and  propitiate  her  by  offering 
her  food,  fire,  all  that  she  lacked.  But  she  felt  that  it 
was  too  late.  The  two  figures  were  still  in  sight, — the 
son  bent  double  almost  by  his  burdens,  the  mother  by 
heavier  ones, — her  years  and  sorrows, — weeping  again, 
and  again  crooning  out,  "  It's  always  the  same.  They 
drive  us  away.  They  won't  let  us  stay  nowhere."  But 
Matilda  was  right:  it  was  too  late.  She  went  into  the 
house  and  sank  on  a  chair,  her  thoughts  full  of  what 
had  happened.  She  was  still  sitting  there,  all  alone, 
when  she  suddenly  felt  as  though  an  unseen  hand  had 
clutched  her  heart  and  released  it  only  to  drive  a  knife 
into  it.  In  short,  she  had  a  violent  spasm  of  the  heart, 
the  result  of  an  organic  defect  that  she  knew  nothing 
of,  and  of  the  excitement  she  had  undergone.  Willy 
found  her  there  an  hour  later  when  he  came  in,  and  was 
as  much  surprised  as  she  had  been  when  she  called  him 
to  her  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  he  had  never  heard  before, 
"Willy,  you  don't  hate  me,  do  you?  I  ain't  been  kind 
to  you,  but  I  will.  Don't  bear  no  grudge  agin  me,  will 
you?"  Matilda  a  saint  would  be.  She  had  got  an 
awful  fright,  and  was  as  eager  as  any  Hindoo  to  pro- 
pitiate Shiva,  the  destroyer. 

Since  the  days  of  the  grand  old  prophet  who  cried, 
"I,  the  Lord  God  of  recompenses,  will  surely  requite, 
saith  the  Lord,"  no  human  voice  had  ever  carried  greater 


BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  305 

panic  into  a  human  breast  than  the  gypsy's  had  done 
into  hers.  And  the  incident,  irrelevant  as  it  seems,  had 
a  direct  and  important  bearing  on  the  events  of  the 
day.  The  sky  was  overcast  now,  and  the  chill  and 
darkness  consequent  upon  the  sun's  withdrawal  still 
further  affected  Matilda's  mind.  As  soon  as  she  could 
do  so,  she  lit  a  fire  in  the  stove.  She  put. a  chair  near 
it  for  Willy.  She  got  him  first  a  large  slice  of  bread 
covered  with  preserves  (opening  a  bottle  that  she  kept 
for  the  greatest  occasions),  and  then  one  of  cake.  She 
promised  him  fifty  cents.  She  told  him  she  would  get 
him  a  pony.  That  she  would  send  him  to  school.  That 
his  father  had  been  her  favorite  cousin.  That  he  should 
benefit  by  her  savings.  She  called  him  "dear"  and 
"  darling  Willy."  She  made  him  sit  on  her  lap,  though 
he  did  not  covet  the  honor.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
Willy  stared  and  stared,  and  stared  again,  and  could 
scarcely  believe  that  it  was  Matilda.  He  sat  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair  at  first.  He  was  afraid  to  swing  his 
feet.  He  was  scared  when  he  let  some  crumbs  drop  on 
the  floor.  But  the  new  Matilda  swept  them  up  with- 
out a  word, — indeed,  actually  with  pleasure,  it  seemed. 
She  got  more  and  more  friendly,  indulgent,  confidential. 
She  told  him  that  his  Pap  was  a  good-for-nothing,  and 
a  vagabond  who  was  "po'  and  wuthless,"  and  could 
never  do  anything  for  him.  She  vowed  that  she  would 
do  everything,  and  more  too.  It  was  a  most  curious 
spectacle  to  see  them  together, — Matilda  insistently, 
persistently  benevolent,  Willy  half  flattered,  half  fright- 
ened, wholly  amazed.  As  the  supreme  authority  of  the 
house,  he  had  alwa3's  respected  her  with  the  respect 
that  all  children  have  for  authority,  and  to  see  the 
u  26* 


306  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

sceptre  laid  at  his  feet,  and  this  pride  abased  before  him, 
made  him  in  the  course  of  an  hour  fully  aware  of  the 
change  in  his  position.  He  presumed  upon  it,  even,  but 
was  not  checked  or  restrained,  much  less  scolded. 

Meanwhile,  Pap  had  sold  all  his  kindling  for  more 
than  he  had  ever  got  before,  and  had  all  his  money  in 
"  the  chunk," — not  as  large  a  pyramid  as  those  put  up  to 
show  the  yield  of  gold  in  California  for  a  year,  but  as 
imposing  and  dazzling  to  his  mind.  He  stopped  at  the 
store  where  the  red-topped  boots  were  hung  out,  and 
bought  them  with  greedy  haste,  snatching  them  down 
from  the  nail  before  the  clerk  could  serve  him,  paying 
for  them  with  pride,  and  suspending  them  carefully 
back  of  the  tar-bucket.  He  then  started  down  a  side- 
street  that  intersected  the  main  one  en  route  to  the 
bank.  He  had  gone  about  a  square,  when  he  heard  him- 
self loudlj^  hailed.  "Johnny!  Johnny  Shore.  Here!" 
He  pulled  up,  and  saw  Mr.  [N^ewman  beckoning  to  hira 
from  a  blacksmith's  shop.  ''  Come  here  !  Come  here  a 
minnit,"  said  Mr.  Newman. 

"  What's  it  ?     I  kaint,"  replied  Pap. 

"Jest  a  minnit,"  said  Mr.  Newman,  imperatively. 
"I'm  buyin'  a  critter  off  Lem'l,  here,  and  we  ain't  agreed. 
You  was  in  the  cavalry;  you  ought  to  know  a  critter, 
and  what  it's  wuth." 

Pap  was  mortal,  and  what  merely  mortal  man  could 
resist  such  an  appeal  ? 

"Well,  I  oughter,"  he  said,  and  smiled  and  complied, 
dismounting,  and  leading  old  Billy  to  a  rack  in  an  open 
space  back  of  the  court-house,  where  he  hitched  him, 
and  where  Billy  instantly  drooped,  wilted,  collapsed  all 
over,  as  only  the  poor  horse  of  a  poor   farmer   can. 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  307 

When  he  joined  Mr.  Kewman  with  a  "  Well !"  he  found 
him  as  exercised  about  the  '•  pints"  of  this  ease  as  he 
had  ever  been  over  those  of  his  memorable  lawsuits. 
He  said  that  he  and  Lem'l  had  had  a  defference  of  opinion 
'bout  that  critter,  and  Lem'l  had  said,  "  There's  Johnny 
Shore.  He  was  in  the  cavalry.  Jest  you  ask  him."  It 
was  some  time  before  the  matter  was  settled.  It  was 
settled  in  Mr.  T^ewman's  favor  in  accordance  with  Pap's 
decision.  Mr.  Newman  was  triumphant.  Pap  was  natu- 
rally pleased.     Lem'l  seemed  low-spirited  and  defeated. 

"  You've  got  the  better  of  me  ;  but  to  show  I  don't  set 
it  agin  you,  why,  I'll  treat  all  'round;  leastways,  I 
don't  want  it  said  as  I'm  leadin'  Johnny  off.  Here's  the 
money.  You  treat,"  said  3Ir.  Harding  to  Mr.  Newman, 
aside,  putting  a  dollar  in  his  hand. 

Mr,  Newman  instantly  agreed.  "All  right!  Come 
along.  We'll  take  a  drink  on  this,"  he  said.  And  Pap 
went.  Just  one,  and  Avith  Mr.  Newman,  not  with  Lem'l, 
was  his  reckoning. 

That  afternoon  a  great  storm  fell  upon  the  Yalley  and 
swept  summer  away  with  it  on  the  wings  of  the  wind 
full  a  thousand  miles.  The  reverberations  of  the  "live 
thunder"  among  the  mountains  as  it  "  leapt  from  crag 
to  crag"  were  magnificent  and  prolonged.  The  light- 
ning bayoneted  the  blackness  above  them,  pulsed  all 
through  the  heavens,  lit  up  all  the  wide,  wet  plain  with 
its  dread  flashes.  And  as  for  rain,  it  was  as  if  Lake 
Superior  had  been  poured  through  a  sieve  down  upon 
the  earth. 

Along  the  road  that  had  once  been  a  trail — a  road  no 
longer  gleaming  white  with  dust  and  4azzling  in  the  sun- 
shine, but  beaten  into  a  gray,  glistening  rivulet — came 


308  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

a  very  different  Pap  from  the  one  who  had  passed  over 
it  80  blithely  in  the  morning, — a  wild,  wretched-looking 
creature  drenched  to  the  skin,  chilled  to  the  soul,  mud- 
splashed,  most  miserable.  About  an  hour  before  he 
had  waked  as  in  another  world  to  a  confused  sense  of 
man}-  things  having  happened  as  in  a  dream.  Where 
was  he,  and  what  had  happened,  he  wondered  ?  He  soon 
found  out  that  he  was  in  the  vacant  square  in  ^vhich 
he  had  left  his  wagon,  which  was  not  ten  feet  away. 
The  storm,  and  what  he  was  doing  exposed  to  it,  had 
next  to  be  accounted  for.  The  next  thought  was  of 
Willy's  boots.  He  hurried  to  the  back  of  the  wagon, 
and  there  they  were,  just  where  he  had  put  them.  Still 
much  dazed,  he  started  to  unhitch  the  horse,  w^hen  sud- 
denly- he  thought  of  Matilda's  money,  and  felt  with 
agonized  haste  for  the  bag  containing  it.  It  was  gone ! 
Frantic,  he  climbed  into  the  w-agon  to  look  for  it.  It 
was  not  there.  More  frantic  still,  he  got  out  and 
looked  all  about  him.  It  was  not  to  be  found.  Sobered 
by  the  shock,  but  half  maddened  by  it,  he  rushed  down 
to  the  main  street  as  fast  as  his  crutch  could  take  him, 
and  ran  in  a  frenzied  way  up  and  down  the  street,  and 
in  and  out  of  the  stores,  raving  excitedly  of  his  loss 
and  meeting  only  with  repulse  and  contempt.  At  last, 
in  utter  despair,  he  gave  up  the  search,  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  home,  returned  to  the  square,  took  another 
look  there,  the  rain  beating  upon  him  all  the  while, 
and  finally,  cursing  his  folly,  got  into  the  wagon.  It 
was  poor,  patient  old  Billy  who  started  off,  of  his  own 
accord,  and  took  the  right  road  at  the  right  turning. 
Pap  was  the  mcyest  automaton  of  a  driver.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  in  the  deep  distress  and  agitation  of 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  309 

his  mind,  the  acute  torment  inflicted  by  his  thoughts, 
he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  another  storm  was 
raging  about  him,  though  his  nervous  terrors  may  have 
been  insensibly  increased  by  it.  He  could  scarcely  see 
where  he  was  going  for  some  miles,  the  rain  continuing 
to  pelt  down  with  scarcely  abated  violence.  But  he 
knew  that  he  would  be  there  very  soon,  only  too  soon, 
and  would  have  to  face  Matilda.  Twenty-five  dollars ! 
Oh,  it  was  monstrous,  hideous!  A  fine  lady  gives 
that  much  for  a  vinaigrette,  a  bonbonniere,  a  thousand 
trifles.  But  on  the  Mountain  it  was  equivalent  to 
twenty-five  hundred,  and  with  Matilda  to  twenty-five 
thousand.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  soul  sickened 
within  him  when  he  thought  of  it. 

The  rain  ceased.  The  Mountain  came  in  view  looking 
like  a  huge  whale  disporting  itself  in  a  sea  of  mist.  The 
wretched  man's  teeth  chattered  and  his  knees  trembled 
in  a  nervous  chill  of  apprehension  when  he  saw  it.  It 
was  not  the  Mountain,  it  was  Matilda,  and  he  saw  his 
own  figure  projected  like  a  Brocken  spectre  against  the 
white  clouds  that  still  hung  about  it.  When  he  got 
home,  he  hitched  his  horse  near  the  gate,  walked  up 
the  path,  waited  at  the  door  fully  ten  minutes,  and  then 
opened  it  in  sheer  desperation.  Matilda  was  not  there, 
but  Alfred  was,  and  to  Alfred  he  blurted  out  the  terrible 
truth.  Alfred  was  profoundly  moved.  He  raced  up 
and  down  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  as 
white  as  the  wall  for  a  moment.  And  then  he  swore 
freely,  but  he  was  not  brutally  furious.  Matilda  came 
in,  and  at  sight  of  her  Pap's  heart  stood  still.  He  stood 
before  her  in  abject  woe,  pale,  trembling,  his  head  bowed 
with  unutterable  grief  and  shame.     He  could  not  utter 


310  BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

a  word.  It  was  Alfred  at  last  who  said,  pleadingly, 
"'Tildy,  don't  take  it  hard.  Don't  now.  He's  lost  all 
your  money."  Matilda's  was  not  a  white  or  speechless 
wrath.  It  was  a  blue  fury.  She  was  terrible  as  she 
stood  there  and  poured  out  upon  Pap  every  drop  of  all 
the  vials  of  wrath  stored  up  in  her  coarse  and  cruel 
nature.  lie  dropped  into  a  chair  and  covered  his  face. 
When  she  accused  him  of  having  stolen  the  money,  he 
looked  up  and  cried,  "  That's  a  misthought.  I  didn't 
tech  it,  not  a  cent  of  it."  When  she  continued  to  rail, 
he  called,  "Oh,  don't.  Don't,  Matilda.  Don't  be  so 
wreakful.  I'll  work  forever  but  I'll  make  it  up  to 
you." 

This  roused  all  her  scorn.  ^^You  make  it  up.  How?" 
she  began,  and  railed  worse  than  ever.  "  I'll  do  any- 
thing. I'll  sell  my  fiddle  !"  moaned  Pap.  The  mention 
of  this  instrument  seemed  to  put  Matilda  utterly  beside 
herself  She  swept  like  a  whirlwind  into  the  shed-room, 
dragged  it  out  from  under  his  bed,  brought  it  in,  dashed 
its  brains  out,  as  it  were,  against  the  door-post,  and 
threw  what  remained,  with  the  little  shawl  that  had  so 
long  been  wrapped  tenderly  about  it,  into  the  fire.  Pap 
started  up,  but  only  looked  on  spell-bound.  Alfred  cried 
out,  "  'Tildy  !  'Tildy !"  Willy,  who  had  witnessed  the 
whole  scene,  burst  out  crying  in  his  fright.  Her  rage 
not  yet  sated,  she  seized  Pap  by  the  arms  and  pushed 
him  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  steps,  shrieking,  *'  Git 
out  of  my  house,  you  drunken  old  thief!  Never  set  foot 
in  it  again, — never!"  She  banged  to  the  door.  Alfred 
and  she  had  some  high  words,  but  Pap  heard  nothing. 
He  was  stunned,  for  he  had  fallen  headlong.  It  was 
some  little  time  before  he  at  all  recovered  his  senses, 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  311 

and  he  was  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead  iu  a 
dazed  way  when  Alfred  came  to  the  door  with  his  crutch 
in  his  hand.  Not  waiting  to  hear  a  word,  he  seized  it 
and  rushed  away,  leaving  his  son  standing  there  gazing 
blankly  after  him. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  after  this  that  Pap  slunk 
into  the  shed-room.  Willy  was  there,  down  on  the  floor 
with  his  back  to  the  door  and  his  playthings  scattered 
around  him.  He  was  so  intently  engaged  that  he  did 
not  hear  Pap  enter.  Pap  looked  down  at  the  dear, 
familiar  little  back  and  the  curly  head.  His  expression 
changed,  and  grew  more  natural.  "  Willy !  Willy,  my 
darlin' !"  he  said,  and  dropped  on  the  floor  near  him. 
He  was  about  to  gather  him  in  a  passionate  embrace, 
and  had  his  arms  about  him,  when  he  discovered  that 
Willy  was  shaving  himself  with  Alfred's  razor.  "  My 
darlin' !"  he  cried,  in  horror,  and,  seizing  it,  wrenched 
it  from  his  grasp. 

Willy's  whole  heart  was  set  on  shaving  himself  "like 
Alfred,"  and  it  angered  him  to  see  the  razor  for  which 
he  had  so  vainly  longed,  and  had  just  secured,  spirited 
away  from  him  by  force.  He  turned  upon  Pap,  gave 
him  a  rough  little  push,  and  said,  angrily,  "  Go  'way. 
You're  a  drunken  old  thief!"  The  child  was  only  re- 
peating with  unconscious  cruelty  what  he  had  just 
heard,  but  in  Pap's  morbid  state  of  diseased  suscepti- 
bility no  allowance  was  made  for  this. 

There  was  the  weight  of  the  world  in  that  little 
hand, — a  black,  loveless,  pitiless,  unbearable  world  it 
seemed  to  the  old  man.  His  little  "  Willy  boy,"  whom 
he  had  so  loved,  more  than  his  own  soul, — his  child, 
his  darling,  for  whom  he  had  sold  the  coat  off  his  back, 


312  BEHIND   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

for  whom  he  would  have  laid  down  his  life,  and  a 
thousand  happier  ones, — to  call  him  that!  lie  gave  the 
child  a  look, — a  strange  look,  Willy  thought  it.  He  rose 
slowly  from  the  floor,  took  his  crutch  again,  opened  the 
door,  and  went  out.  It  was  no  longer  raining.  The  sun 
was  setting  behind  the  distant  mountains  on  his  right. 
Above  them  stretched  a  sea  of  golden  calm  framed  in 
black  clouds  that  parted  farther  on  showing  a  strip  of 
exquisitely  translucent  blue,  and  a  smaller  space  flecked 
with  the  green  the  sea  shows  above  coral  reefs.  On  his 
left,  Massanutton's  spur  stood  out  in  high  relief,  darkly, 
brightly  blue,  against  a  rosy  background.  Except  for 
these,  there  was  no  color  to  be  seen.  The  whole  heavens 
were  hung  in  black,  tinged  in  the  east  with  amethyst 
by  the  dying  lord  of  day.  All  the  landscape  was  sombre 
and  sodden.  The  surf-wind  of  the  mountains  had 
sprung  up  and  was  breaking  and  roaring  on  its  distant 
shore,  and  sweeping  moaningly  over  the  plain  below,  as 
Pap  skirted  the  side  of  the  hill  and  disappeared  in  the 
hollow  on  the  other  side.  There  was  a  large,  turbid 
pool  at  the  bottom  of  it,  encircled  by  unsightly  ghosts 
of  dead  grasses  and  weeds  at  this  season,  but  with  one 
lovely  late-blooming  bush  of  wild  aster  flowering  whitely 
near  the  brink.  When  Pap  saw  it,  he  stooped  and  picked 
a  bit,  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  threw  it  awa}',  looked  all 
about  him.  Ilis  eyes  rested  on  the  strip  of  blue,  and 
AVilly's  speech  about  his  dead  wife  came  back  to  him. 
"Ay,  she's  there!"  he  thought. 

A  little  later  some  tattered,  frightened  clouds  that 
had  overhung  the  pool  hurried  away  to  the  north. 
The  evening  star  sprang  laughing  out  into  the  blue. 


BEHIND    THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  313 

In  the  cottage,  Jinny  White,  who  had  droi)ped  in,  was 
trying  to  light  the  lamp. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  it?"  she  said,  after 
the  fourth  failure.  "Hit's  got  water  in  it.  That's  a 
sign, — a  sign  of  a  drowndin'." 

When  she  finally  succeeded  in  her  self-imposed  task, 
she  set  the  lamp  in  the  window,  through  which  its  long 
yellow  rays  shone  friendly  and  far, — the  window  of  the 
house  in  which  John  Shore  had  lived,  loved,  suffered. 

But  a  life,  like  the  light  of  the  world,  had  sunk  in 
night. 


THE   END. 


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"  For  a  number  of  months  past  the  readers  of  LippincoW s  Magazine  have 
been  delighted  by  the  instalments  of  one  of  the  most  charming  stories  that  h.is 
yet  been  written  by  an  American  girl,  and  the  wonder  was  that  the  story  did 
not  excite  a  wider  interest.  'On  Both  Sides'  has  now  been  published  in  book 
form,  and  proves  to  be  a  positive  surprise  to  the  literary  world.  There  is 
neither  an  Englishman  nor  an  American  writer  on  this  side  or  that  who  might 
not  be  proud  to  have  written  this  international  novel.  It  will  be  one  of  the 
most  popular  boolcs  of  the  season, — one  that  will  be  read,  criticised,  and 
talked  about  in  all  the  circles  of  intelligent  society."— A''<rM/  Orleans  Picayune. 

"Miss  Baylor's  clever  story  has  had  such  high  marks  of  appreciation  during 
its  appearance  as  a  serial  in  Lippincott's  Magazine,  that  its  publication  in 
book  form  is  most  gratifying.  There  is  one  test  of  the  unfailing  spirit  and 
good  humor  of  the  novel.  Hosts  of  magazine  readers  have  been  awaiting  its 
publication,  as  a  whole,  in  order  to  mail  it  to  English  friends.  Both  nationali- 
ties, in  fact,  are  so  delicately  and  humorously  satirized,  that  it  is  a  truly 
'international'  piece  of  fun.  The  good  points,  the  true  distinction  of  good 
breeding  in  manners  and  customs  pertaining  to  each  of  the  two  peoples,  and 
the  thorough  good  understanding  of  the  genuine  people  in  the  story,  are  the 
most  satisfactory  of  its  conclusions;  but  it  is  a  sharp  stylus  that  sets  down  the 
pretensions  of  the  vulgar  on  either  side.  It  looks  as  though  Dais^  Miller 
were  avenged  at  last— and  yet  no  offence  either  given  or  received.'  —Phila- 
delphia Ledger. 

"In  Miss  Baylor's  work  we  have  a  novel  entertaining  from  beginning  to 
end,  with  brightness  that  never  falls  flat,  that  always  suggests  something  be- 
yond the  mere  amusement,  that  will  be  most  enjoyed  by  those  of  most  cultiva- 
tion, that  is  clever,  keen,  and  intellectual  enough  to  be  recognized  as  genuine 
wit,  and  yet  good-natured  and  amiable  enough  to  be  accepted  as  the  most  de- 
lightful humor.  It  is  not  fun,  but  intelligent  wit ;  it  is  not  mere  comicality, 
but  charming  humor;  it  is  not  a  collection  of  bright  sayings  of  clever  people, 
but  a  reproduction  of  ways  of  thought  and  types  of  manner  infinitely  enter- 
taining to  the  reader,  while  not  in  the  least  funny  to  the  actor,  or  intended  by 
him  to  appear  funny.  It  is  inimitably  good  as  a  rendering  of  the  peculiarities 
of  British  and  of  American  nature  and  training,  while  it  is  so  perfectly  free 
from  anything  like  ridicule,  that  the  victims  would  be  the  first  to  smile."— 
The  Critic.  

***For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on 
receipt  of  the  price  by 

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PUBLICATIONS   OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 
"A  BRILLIANT  PICTURE   OF  GARRISON  LIFE." 

MARION'S  FAITH. 

By  Captain  CHARLES  KING,   U.S.A., 

Author  of  "  The  Colonel's  Daughter," 
"  Kitty's  Conquest,"  etc. 

ismo.      Extra  cloth  ------  $1.25 

"  Captain  King  has  done  what  the  many  admirers  of  his  charming 
first  story, '  The  Colonel's  Daughter,'  hoped  he  would  do, — he  has  written 
another  novel  of  American  army  life.  The  present  is  in  some  sort  a 
continuation  of  the  former,  many  of  the  characters  of  the  first  story  re- 
appearing in  the  pages  of  this  volume.  The  scenes  of  the  story  are  laid 
in  the  frontier  country  of  the  West,  and  fights  with  the  Cheyenne  Indians 
afford  sufficiently  stirring  incidents.  The  same  bright,  sparkling  style 
and  easy  manner  which  rendered  '  The  Colonel's  Daughter'  and  '  Kitty's 
Conquest'  so  popular  and  so  delightful,  characterize  the  present  volume. 
It  is  replete  with  spirited,  interesting,  humorous,  and  pathetic  pictures  of 
soldier  life  on  the  frontier,  and  will  be  received  with  a  warm  welcome, 
not  only  by  the  large  circle  of  readers  of  the  author's  previous  works, 
but  by  all  who  delight  in  an  excellent  story  charmingly  told." — Chicago 
Evening  jfournal. 

"  The  author  of  this  novel  is  a  gallant  soldier,  now  on  the  retired  list 
by  n'ason  of  wounds  received  in  the  line  of  duty.  The  favor  with  which 
his  books  have  been  received  proves  that  he  can  write  as  well  as  fight. 
'  Marion's  Faith'  is  a  very  pleasing  story,  with  a  strong  flavor  of  love  and 
shoulder-straps,  and  military  life,  and  cannot  but  charm  the  reader." — 
Natio7ial  Tribune,  Washington,  D.  C. 

"  Captain  King  has  caught  the  true  spirit  of  the  American  novel,  for 
he  has  endowed  his  work  fully  and  freely  with  the  dash,  vigor,  breeziness, 
bravery,  tenderness,  and  truth  which  are  recognized  throughout  the 
world  as  our  national  characteristics.  Moreover,  he  is  letting  in  a  flood 
of  light  upon  the  hidden  details  of  army  life  in  our  frontier  garrisons  and 
amid  the  hills  of  the  Indian  country.  He  is  giving  the  public  a  bit  of 
insight  into  the  career  of  a  United  States  soldier,  and  abundantly  de- 
monstrating that  the  Custers  and  Mileses  and  Crooks  of  to-day  are  not 
mere  hired  men,  but  soldiers  as  patriotic,  unselfish,  and  daring  as  any 
of  those  who  went  down  with  the  guns  in  the  great  civil  strife.  Captain 
King's  narrative  work  is  singularly  fascinating." — St.  Louis  Republican. 

"  As  descriptions  of  life  at  an  army  post,  and  of  the  vicissitudes,  trials, 
and  heroisms  of  army  life  on  the  plains,  in  what  are  called  '  times  of 
peace,'  the  two  novels  of  Captain  King  are  worthy  of  a  high  and  per- 
manent place  in  American  literature.  They  will  hereafter  take  rank  with 
Cooper's  novels  as  distinctively  American  works  of  fiction." — Army  and 
Navy  Register,  Washington,  D,  C. 


PUBLICATIONS   OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 

KITTY'S    CONQUEST. 

By  CAPX.  CHARLES  KING,  U.S.A., 

Author  of  "The  Colonel's  Daughter,"  "Marion's  Faith,"  eto- 

16mo.    Extra  Cloth.    $1.00. 


"A  highly  entertaining  love  story,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the  Soul* 
•even  years  after  the  war." — New  York  Herald. 

"  Capt.  King  has  given  us  another  delightful  story  of  American  life.  Th« 
reputation  of  the  author  will  by  no  means  suffer  through  his  second  venture. 
We  can  heartily  commend  the  story  to  all  lovers  of  the  American  novel." — 
Washington  Capital. 

"  Will  take  rank  with  its  gifted  author's  vivid  romance,  '  The  Colonel's 
Daughter,'  and  should  become  as  popular.  Capt.  King  writes  fluently  and 
felicitously,  and  in  the  novel  under  review  there  is  not  a  tiresome  page.  Every- 
thing is  graphic,  telling,  and  interesting.  The  plot  is  of  particular  excellence." 
— Philadelphia  Evening  Call. 

"  '  Kitty's  Conquest,'  a  charming  little  story  of  love  and  adventure,  by 
Charles  King,  US.  A.  The  plot  is  laid  in  the  South  during  the  reconstruction 
period  following  the  late  war.  The  book  is  written  in  a  most  attractive  style, 
and  abounds  in  bright  passages.  The  characters  are  drawn  in  a  very  pleasing 
manner,  and  the  plot  is  handled  very  successfully  throughout.  It  is  altogether 
a  pleasing  addition  to  the  library  of  modem  fiction." — Boston  Post. 

"  A  bright,  original,  captivating  story.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the  South  some 
twelve  years  ago.  It  is  full  of  life  from  the  word  'go !'  and  maintains  its  inter- 
est uninterruptedly  to  the  end.  The  varying  fortunes  through  which  the  hero 
pursues  his  '  military  love-making'  are  graphically  depicted,  and  a  spice  of  dan- 
gerous adventure  makes  the  story  all  the  more  readable." — New  York  School 
yournal. 

"A  bright  and  vivaciously-told  story,  whose  incidents,  largely  founded  upon 
fact,  occurred  some  twelve  years  ago.  The  scene,  opening  in  Alabama,  is  soon 
transferred  to  New  Orleans,  where  the  interest  mainly  centres,  revolving  round 
the  troublous  days  when  Kellogg  and  Mc£nery  were  de  facto  and  de  jure 
claimants  of  supreme  power  in  Louisiana,  when  the  air  was  filled  with  notes  of 
warlike  preparation  and  the  iread  of  armed  men.  Though  the  heroes  are,  foi 
»Jje  most  part,  United  States  officers,  there  is  yet  nothing  but  kindly  couriesj 
and  generous  good-will  in  the  tone  of  the  story,  and  its  delineations  oi  Southern 
character  and  life,  of  Southern  scenes,  and  the  circumstances  and  conditions  of 
the  time.  I'he  author  is  Charles  King,  himself  a  United  States  soldier,  whose 
story  of  *  The  Colonel's  Daughter*  has  been  well  received." — New  Orleans 
TimeS'Democrat. 


%*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  oe 
receipt  of  the  price,  by 

J    B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  Publishers, 

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-!  REDUCED    IN   PRICE   TO    $1.25!-^ 


THE  COLONEL'S  DAUGHTER; 

OR, 

IVIIVJVING   HIS  SPURS. 

12mo,    Extra  Cloth.    ?1.25. 

"The  sketches  of  life  in  a  cavalry  command  on  the  frontier  are  exceedingTy 
-vivid  and  interesting;  and  the  element  of  adventure  is  furnished  in  the  graphic 
and  spirited  accounts  of  affairs  with  the  hostile  Apaches.  Captain  King  is  to  be 
thanked  for  an  entertaining  contribution  to  the  slender  stock  of  American  mili- 
tary novels— a  contribution  so  good  that  we  hope  that  he  will  give  us  another." 
— N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  The  fertility  of  this  field  of  garrison  and  reservation  life  has  already  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  several  writers.  We  took  up  the  work  of  Captain  King 
with  the  impression  thatit  might  be  like  some  of  these,  an  ephemeral  production; 
we  found  it  instead  a  charming  work,  worthy  of  achieving  a  permanent  place  in 
literature.  We  cordially  congratulate  Captain  King  on  his  accomplished  suc- 
cess, for  such  unquestionably  it  is." — Army  and  Navy  Journal,  N.  Y. 

"  There  have  been  few  American  novels  published  of  late  years  so  thoroughly 
readable  as  '  The  Colonel's  Daughter,'  which,  if  it  be  Captain  King's  first  essay 
in  fiction,  is  assuredly  a  most  encouraging  production." — Literary  World. 

"  The  volume  is  a  remarkable  work  of  fiction,  and  will  be  found  entertaining 
and  well  worthy  a  careful  reading."— CA/co^^?  Tribune. 

"  Not  for  many  a  season  has  there  appeared  before  the  public  a  novel  so 
thoroughly  captivating  as  '  The  Colonel's  Daughter.'  Its  fresh  flavor  cannot  f.nl 
to  please  the  veriest  ennuye,  while  its  charming  style  would  disarm  the  most 
fastidious  critic.  With  that  delicacy  of  touch  peculiar  to  his  workmanship,  \\t 
draws  now  upon  pathos,  now  upon  humor,  but  never  strains  either  quality  to  its 
utmost  capacity,  which  distinctly  proves  that  Captain  King  is  a  writer  of  signal 
ability,  whose  novel  of  'The  Colonel's  Daughter'  we  hope  is  but  the  prelude, 
to  many  others." — Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"A  departure  into  a  new  field  in  novel  writing  ought  always  to  be  wel- 
comed. '  The  Colonel's  Daughter'  is,'  strictly  speaking,  the  first  American  mil- 
iury  novel.  It  is  a  good  one,  and  Captain  King  ought  to  follow  up  the  complete 
success  he  has  made  with  other  stories  of  army  life  on  the  American  frontier. 
The  style  of  the  author  is  unaffected,  pure  in  tone,  and  elevating  in  moral 
t&QC\.."  —Wisconsin  State  Journal. 

CapUin  King  has  in  this  novel  prepared  for  us  a  clear  and  interesting  story 
of  army  incidents  in  the  West.  He  is  aufait  in  the  art  which  made  Sir  Walter 
Scott  a  companion  for  old  and  young — the  art  which  brings  to  the  mind  of  the 
reader  that  sentient  power  which  places  us  directly  into  communion  with  the 
imaginary  characters  filling  their  parts  in  a  book.  The  military  incidents  are 
interwoven  into  the  inspiring  love  episode  that  to  the  pages  of  this  work  add  an- 
imation."—  Times- Detnocrat,  Nen.v  Orleans. 

"'  The  Colonel's  Daughter  ;  or,  Winning  His  Spurs,'  a  story  of  military  life 
at  an  Arizona  post,  written  by  Captain  Charles  King,  U.S.A.,  and  published  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia,  may  rightfully  claim  to  be  a  good  novel. 
Its  characters  are  strong  and  clear-cut;  its  plot  original  and  well  sustained,  and 
the  pictures  of  military  life  on  the  frontier,  of  Apache  character,  and  of  the 
physical  features  of  Arizona  Territory  are  realistic  and  fascinating." — San 
Francisco  Bulletin. 

"  The  outcome  of  the  novel  is  just  what  every  reader  would  wish.  It  is  a 
splendid  story,  full  of  life  and  enjoyment,  and  will  doubtless  prove  a  great 
^\QX\X.t.." —Iowa  State  Register,  Des  Moines. 

For  Sale  by  all  Booksellers. 

PnbUshed  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  Philadelphia,  Pa 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 

0ne  of  the  J^uanes. 

BY 

AI.ICH    KIPUG    HA]»III.XOX. 

12mo.    Extra  cloth.     $1.25. 


"  Bonny  Duane,  the  centre  of  interest,  is  a  delightful  young  lady, 
but  seems  more  Philadelpliian  than  of  New  York  in  her  beliefs  and 
customs.  The  other  characters,  the  gossips  and  the  military  men, 
are  well  considered,  and  the  hero  is  as  perfect  as  one  would  like  both 
in  beauty  and  in  disposition.  But  the  merit  of  the  book  lies  not  in 
characters  which  are  rather  conventional,  but  in  the  scenes  and  the 
swift  movement  of  a  striking  plot.  The  author  knows  how  to  tell  a 
story." — Boston  yournal. 

"This  clever  story  of  an  artillery  post  is  based  upon  a  dramatic 
incident  of  military  life.  A  keen  eye  for  the  humorous  side,  and  an 
adequate  appreciation  of  dramatic  effects,  make  it  decidedly  agree- 
able reading." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"An  interesting  novel  of  life  in  the  garrison  and  navy-yard  circles 
of  Pensacola,  and  ends  as  all  good  novels  should." — New  York  Home 
Journal. 

"This  is  a  tale  of  Florida  life,  full  of  adventure  and  thrilling  with 
interest.  It  is  written  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  best  style,  and  deals  with 
the  social  customs  of  military  life,  varied  by  the  adventures  incident 
to  the  camp.  There  are  interwoven  with  the  thread  of  the  story 
many  bits  of  description  of  the  scenery  of  the  country  where  the  plot 
is  laid." — Baltimore  Herald. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  best  of  recent  novels,  is  well  told,  and  holds  the 
reader's  interest  to  the  end." — Germantown  Telegraph. 

"  A  well-written  and  interesting  novel,  with  a  plot  somewhat  out 
of  the  usual  course.  The  story  is  a  pleasant  one,  and  will  repay 
those  who  select  it  for  reading  at  the  sea-side  or  mountain  this 
summer." — Toledo  Blade. 

"  It  is  an  intenselv  interesting  book,  as  when  did  a  story  of  army 
life,  either  in  time  of'peace  or  war,  fail  to  be  ?  It  is  a  book  than  which 
few  are  more  entertaining." — Boston  Globe. 

"Eminently  readable  and  entertaining.'' — Charleston  News  and 
Courier. 

***For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  OB 
receipt  of  the  price  by 

(/.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  Publishers, 

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[;;-V;f'.'.V'%  J    B  LIPPINCOTT  COMPAN~^:v;'»-|r:;.'j 


TAKEN 

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lleinflsonteJy  Isstietl 
in  12»no  Form, 

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"This  is  a  charming  love-story,  interesting  alike  to  all,  and  sustains  a 
high  interest  to  tlie  close.  It  is  a  book  that  the  reader  will  not  willingly 
lay  aside  until  the  pleasing  sequel  is  reached."— Oftto  State  Journal. 

"  A  graphic  and  very  interesting  anonymoiis  story  of  a  young  journal- 
ist's experiences  in  New  York.  Who  the  hero  may  be  is  enveloped  in 
mystery,  but  that  the  heroine  is  Miss  Clara  Louise  Kellogg  there  is  little 
doubt.  The  other  characters  will  be  readily  recognized  as  conspicuous 
in  New  York  society.  The  story  reveals  the  inside  workings  of  some  of 
the  metropolitan  newspapers,  and  shows  how,  by  pluck,  brains,  and  luck, 
a  new  man  may  sometimes  rise  rapidly  to  the  highest  rank  in  journal- 
ism, distancing  the  veterans.  The  author  has  unusual  ability  as  a  writer 
of  fiction."— ^^6any  Journal. 

"  A  sketch  of  New  York  life,  characterized  by  a  certain  dash  and  fresh- 
ness. It  possesses  vigor  and  lightness.  The  author  has  produced  an 
entertaining  story." — Boston  Journal. 

"The  book  is  pure  and  wholesome;  the  story  entertaining,  good, 
healthy,  and  readable." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  The  story  deals  with  the  living  forces  and  events  of  to-day,  and  is  one 
of  the  most  vital  and  strong  and  keenly  interesting  of  late  novels." — 
Boston  Evening  Traveller. 

For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  the 
price  by  the  Publishers, 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY, 

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Barnaby  Rudge  and  Hard  Times.     Our  Mutual  Friend. 
Martin  Chuzzlewit.  Christmas  Books. 

American  Notes  and  Pictures  History  of  England. 

from  Italy.  Christmas  Stories. 

Dombey  and  Son.  Edwin  Drood  and  Other  Stories. 

Cloth,  ;g6o.oo*'*.  Half  calf,  gilt,  marbled  edges,  ^120.00*.  Three-quarters 
calf,  extra  finish,  gilt  top,  other  edges  uncut,  J125.00*.  Full  tree  calf,  gilt, 
>i  75.00. 

Library  Edition. 
12mo.     With  the  Original  Illustrations.    30  vols. 
Each  work  sold  separately  in  the  original  red  cloth  binding.     Per  vol.,  ^1.50*. 
In  sets.     Cloth.     30  vols.,  ^45.00*.     In  sets.     Three-quarters  calf.    30  vols., 
fco.oo*. 

Handy  Edition. 

30  vols.     16m,o.     Half  eloth,  SO  cents  per  vol.     Half  morocco, 

$1.00  per  vol.    In  course  of  publication. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE'S  WORKS. 

The  Ashburton  Edition. 

This  Edition  is  handsomely  printed,  and  contains  the  Portraits  and  Illustra- 
tions. 17  vols.  Demy  8vo.  Cloth,  gilt  top,  gz.oo  per  vol.  Three-quarters 
calf,  $4.50  per  vol. 

Vol.      I.    The  French  Revolution. 

Vol.    II.    The  French  Revolution  and  Past  and  Present. 
Vol.  III.     Sartor  Resartus;    Heroes  and  Hero  Worship. 
Vol.  IV.     Life  of  John  Sterling,  Life  of  Schiller. 
Vol.     V.     Latter-Day  Pamphlets,  Early  Kings  of  Norway,  Essay  on 

the  Portrait  of  John  Knox. 
Vols.  VI.,  VII.,  VIII.     Letters    and  Speeches  of  Oliver   Cromwell. 

Vols.  I.,  II.,  III. 
Vols.  IX.,  X.,  XI..  XII.,  XIII.,  XIV.     History  of  Frederick  the  Great. 

Vols.  I.,  II.,  III.,  IV.,  v.,  VI. 
Vols.  XV.,  XVI.,  XVII,     Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays.     Vols. 

I.,  II.,  III.  ' 

People's  Edition. 
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38  vols.  Cloth,  $28.50.  Full  alligator,  yellow  burnished  edges,  |6o.oo.  Or 
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Full  Russia  flexible,  in  Russia  case,  $60.00.  Half  calf,  gilt,  $50.00.  Tree 
calf,  $85.00. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY, 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  Waverley  Novels. 

New  Library  Edition.  Complete  in  25  octavo  volumes. 
Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.75  per  volume,  or  half  morocco,  gilt  top, 
at  ^2.25  per  volume. 

This  new  edition  of  Waverley  Novels,  published  in  connec- 
tion with  Adam  and  Charles  Black,  is  printed  at  Edinburgh. 
Each  volume  contains  an  entire  novel,  printed  on  fine 
paper,  in  bold,  legible  type,  and  contains  two  steel  engrav- 
ings by  the  most  eminent  artists  of  their  time. 

It  tpill  be  published  in  the  following  order,  two  volumes  a  monthf 
eommencing  November,  1886: 

I.  Waverley;    or,   '"Tis   Sixty  15.  Peveril  of  the  Peak. 

Years  Since."  16.  Quentin  Durward. 

a.  Guy   Mannering;    or,   The  17.  St.  Ronan's  Well. 

Astrologer.  18.  Redgauntlet. 

3.  The  Antiquary.  19.  The  Betrothed,  and  the  High- 

4.  Rob  Roy.  land  Widow. 

5.  Old  Mortality.  20.  The  Talisman:  A  Tale  of  the 

6.  A  Legend  of  Montrose,  and  Crusaders. 

The  Black  Dwarf.  21.  Woodstock;  or,  The  Cavalier. 

7.  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.       22.  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth;  or, 

8.  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor.  St.  Valentine's  Day. 

g.  Ivanhoe:  A  Romance.  23.  Anne  of  Geierstein  ;  or,  The 

10.  The  Monastery.  Maiden  of  The  Mist. 

11.  The  Abbot:  A  Sequel.  24.  Count  Robert  of  Paris, 

12.  Kenilworth.  25.  The  Surgeon's  Daughter,  and 

13.  The  Pirate.  Castle  Dangerous. 

14.  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel. 

Dickens's  Christmas  Stories. 

New  Reprint  of  the  Original  Edition,  viz. :  Christmas  Carols, 
The  Chimes,  The  Haunted  Man,  Battle  of  Life,  Cricket 
on  the  Hearth.  Reprinted  from  the  original  plates,  and 
contains  all  the  illustrations.  5  vols.  Original  English 
cloth,  50  cents  per  volume.  Bound  in  half  Persian 
morocco,  gilt  top,  per  set,  ^5.00. 

Horse  and  Man. 

Their  Mutual  Dependence  and  Duties.  By  the  Rev.  J.  G. 
Wood,  M.A.,  author  of  "  Homes  without  Hands,"  etc. 
With  Illustrations.     8vo.     Extra  cloth,  1^2.50. 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
95 


\^^< 


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